


Who's in the shadows?

by captainhurricane



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Blood, Body Horror, Clones, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dismemberment, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Politics, Florist!Shiro, Good guy Lotor, Hunk/Romelle on the side, Krolia/Keith's Dad - Freeform, M/M, Mindfuck, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Past Brainwashing, Slow Burn, Tattoo Artist!Keith, other relationships are mostly implied, past Shiro/Adam, switching POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2020-02-27 18:50:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 35,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18744985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhurricane/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: The summer in the city of Appleberry is blazing. Secrets the city holds, however, are ready to burst from beneath the surface.Shiro is just a guy with no memory of his past and Keith is just a guy with wanderlust in his heart. Somehow they get caught in the middle.





	1. Shiro, right here

**Author's Note:**

> so uh here is my latest sheith project. i've got around 67 pages on google docs so you can actually have updates frequently. at least for a while.
> 
> thanks to unwoundfuture for brainstorming a shitload with me!! and even looking over my biggest mistakes!! <3

_ "Come faeries, take me out of this dull world, _

_ for I would ride with you upon the wind _

_ and dance upon the mountains like a flame" _

_ \--W.B.Yeats _

 

~

 

In the summer, the City of Appleberry smells like the fruit it was named for. June begins with the Annual Appleberry Festival, stalls scattered all over the market place, selling food, trinkets, snacks, anything and everything imaginable. The smells and sounds are overpowering to the most sensitive ears and noses, but most of the citizens visit the Festival at least once every single year. It is tradition, after all, meant to bring in good cheer to the people, lead by the City’s mayor, Mrs. Colleen Holt.

 

She opens the Festival with a speech, smiling into the microphone. The sun blasts them all with heat, wind gently rustling through dry leaves and sweaty hair, but not enough to cool it down. The people of Appleberry know how this goes: speeches, dances, shiny trinkets of all kinds and most importantly, the delicacy itself, appleberry pies. Appleberries are not quite fruit but not quite berries either, they have a distinct taste of apples, juicy and just sweet enough to melt on one’s tongue. Often the people joke there must be some kind of an aphrodisiac in the appleberries because often the most eager, the most excited citizens find themselves dragging each other back home, into alleyways and behind market stalls, chasing after kisses and laughter. 

 

The City of Appleberry is a kind place to live, especially for those who have escaped something or are running away. 

 

Among those celebrating is Shiro, a little lost in the cheer, arms full of flowers. 

“Excuse me,” he says, his faint accent blurring his English into something softer, sweeter. White hair, shaved and cut short, spills from underneath a pastel blue cap, adorned with the logo of the flower shop. “Excuse me, excuse me,” he keeps saying even when the people keep making way: at his impressive height with his broad shoulders, Shiro generally doesn’t have a hard time finding his way through crowds. And most of these people know him by now, after four years in the City. 

 

“Ah, if it isn’t Mr. Shirogane!”

“Hi, Shiro!”

“Look, it’s big bro!”

 

Nobody dares to say Takashi: Takashi is for whispered conversations in the early hours, for the gentle press of skin against skin, for the hot breath against a heaving chest. Takashi was also for the parents, a mother and a father, now long gone. 

 

Shiro holds those losses close to his heart, wounded, but not broken. 

 

He delivers his flowers, red hyacinths, snow white dainty daisies and gets a kiss on the cheek and the rest of his payment in return. As usual, he smiles brighter than the sun and takes his leave, making his way through the crowds back to his pick-up truck, its side splashed with the same logo of two embracing roses as Shiro’s hat. Under the logo, it says simply  _ Coran’s Flowers. _

 

Coran himself is waiting by the truck, blabbering louder than the neighbourhood gossipers into his phone. 

“And then, if you can believe it, dear girl, your old Uncle felt so wretched - oh, here comes Shiro! That means work awaits!” With a hearty guffaw, Coran bids his goodbyes to whoever he was speaking to and turns to Shiro. “Sent off the rest of our flowers then, dear boy?” 

 

Shiro huffs a laugh. “Naturally. Ready to go? There weren’t any more deliveries for today.” Shiro takes the driver’s seat, after four years, still unable to trust Coran’s driving. “Was that your niece?” 

 

Coran nods and turns on the radio, keeping the volume low but clearly eager to sing along loud anyway. “She is coming back tomorrow from her trip. Apparently with a new hire in tow.” Coran fiddles with the radio, tapping his fingers on his bouncing knee.

 

“New hire? That’s cool.” Shiro drives on. He’s only met Allura, Coran’s angel-faced niece, a handful of times and found her sweet. They don’t hang out, not exactly, but Shiro delivers fresh flowers to Allura’s tattoo shop across the street regularly enough to call their relationship somewhat of a friendship. Allura had left for Southern India to be with some family almost a year ago and Shiro had missed her quite a bit. 

 

Her co-workers, Hunk Garrett and Matt Holt, also sneaked their way into Shiro’s heart and became his friends, so it’s not like he’s been lonely. He sometimes stays over after doing his deliveries, sips coffee or green tea with the guys and idly looks through tattoo designs. Hunk is a big, friendly bear of a young man, with thick, heavily tattooed arms proudly declaring his Samoan heritage, and the penchant for stress-baking cookies. Hunk tinkers. Hunk is the peacemaker. He gives great warm hugs and cries during Disney movies. Shiro can relate because he does too: he was a kid once, after all and nostalgia is an easy way to tickle his tear ducts. 

 

Matt, however, laughs at their tears and teases them mercilessly. If Hunk can be compared to the cuddliest bear ever, then Matt is certainly a fox: his own skin is relatively unmarked, but his work is intricate and detailed. Matt specialized in splashes of colour, little sceneries painted on the skin of his customers. Matt blabbers on about his genius little sister more often than not, thoroughly embarrassing said little sister if she shows up - which she does, at least once a week, despite being in an university in another town. When neither Hunk or Allura ever probes too much about Shiro’s past and the huge chunks that are missing, Matt has no such qualms. 

 

Matt is endlessly curious of Shiro and often joins him in the gym, asking for exercising tips to become as big as him. 

 

Shiro usually blushes at that and earns himself a shitload of teasing because Matt is, aside from being a brilliant friend, a huge dork. 

 

Shiro knows he is pretty big. He knows he isn’t that bad looking, okay. It’s just that he isn’t looking for anyone or anything, his left hand is doing him just fine. Shiro runs away to his flowers when things get too much, finds comfort in the colour and the monochrome, in the sparkling little lights he sometimes sees floating around them: when he’s too tired or when he’s running on too much caffeine. 

 

Flowers and friends, that is what Takashi Shirogane is made of. 

 

“Are you listening?”

 

Shiro snaps out of his thoughts. He blushes, tightens his grip on the steering wheel. Sunlight glimmers on the gunmetal grey of his prosthetic arm. “S-sorry, no. I’m. I was somewhere else for a second.”

 

Coran hums and twirls his moustache. “As I was saying, yes. New hire. Apparently part of the reason she went to India was not only to visit her extended family, but to get her hands on this new hire. She tells me this man, Keith something, has an extensive and interesting collection of artwork in his Instant gram.” 

 

Shiro’s snort escapes before he can help it. He turns the steering wheel. “It’s Instagram.” Shiro clears his throat and begins gently tapping on the wheel, recognizing the song on the radio. “Ah. Sounds cool. What’s his handle? I’ll take a look.” Sweat licks its way down Shiro’s body, glueing his shirt to his broad chest. 

 

“Handle?” Coran’s moustache and hair is so blindingly orange that the sun pales next to them. 

 

Shiro squints at him, mouth twitching with mirth. “The nickname? What he goes by on Instagram? I’d like to follow him. You know I have been thinking of a tattoo.” 

 

Coran clears his throat three times and nods sagely. He takes his phone and begins tapping. “Blackfaepaladin. How intriguing.” 

 

Shiro huffs. “I’ll remember that. He has to be good if Allura went to another country to fetch him.” He parks the car behind their flower shop, snugly stops it right by the little loading dock. Coran’s flowers can’t brag with a massive amount of space, but at least it gets the job done. Coran chatters on when they unload the empty crates and get inside. Shiro half-heartedly listens, already lost in thought. 

 

He doesn’t get the chance to open his phone until he’s safely tucked by his TV, in his quaint little apartment a mere bike-ride away from the flower shop. 

“Blackfaepaladin,” he mutters as he fiddles with his phone. Having to relearn how to use an entire right arm had taken so long and still Shiro sometimes struggles: learning how to prefer his left one had been easier. His fingers slip on the little touchscreen and he grumbles, but he manages to open the app and type the needed words. 

 

What he comes across is a gallery of tattoos, geometric, intricate shapes of all kinds, most of them black, some of them flashing with all the colours of a rainbow. All of them inked across a variety of skin types and skin colours, with what is clearly a very clear and precise hand. If there is meaning to most of these shapes, then it goes by Shiro’s tired brain. 

 

“Come on, give me a pic.” He keeps thinking out loud, shifting through countless of pictures of tattoos, past blackfaepaladin’s short and blunt bio - Keith K, 25, tattoo artist. When there appears to be no picture of the tattoo artist himself, Shiro idly goes to good old Google, hoping to get a glimpse of the face behind the careful hands. He searches for a while before finally hitting his mark: Keith Kogane, now 25, world-traveller, tattoo artist. He is a mystery to most people on the internet, has at least three fanclubs and judging by the four pictures Shiro finds, so unbearably beautiful that Shiro shuts his phone off and sighs. 

 

He curls up on his couch and sighs again, hiding his face from the world. Keith Kogane, he thinks. Twenty-five. Black hair, long enough to reach his waist. Face like an angel’s, with a pouting mouth and eyes dark enough that it’s impossible to tell what colour they are. Shiro exhales slowly. He isn’t blind. He is still young himself and he has needs. 

 

He leaves whatever kisses he gives to daylight hours, to friends who want them and leaves it at that. Nobody needs him and his nightmares of cold terrors, numerous scars he doesn’t know the origin of or the way he can’t remember a single thing from before he moved here. Coran and his friends across the street are all he has. Appleberry City has become his whole world. 

 

Sometimes he does this: withdraws from the world in the dark of his apartment, overthinks until he shatters, until he becomes nothing but ash, displaced from his body, his mind floating somewhere else. He can feel it coming. 

 

So he opens his phone again and looks at the shape of Keith’s jaw, the sharp angle of his slim nose. 

“I am Shiro, I am home,” Shiro murmurs. “I am on my couch, looking at a picture of a man I find attractive. There is nothing wrong with me.” Shiro tugs his phone next to him and turns the volume up on the TV. “There is nothing wrong with me. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me.” 

 

Shiro inhales, exhales. Inhales, exhales. Inhales deep, exhales slow. Maybe he should get a cat. More companionship than just his three friends and eccentric uncle could do him good. 

 

He watches TV for the rest of the evening, meditates and goes to sleep, a little restless. 

 

His dreams are full of dead leaves crunching under his boots, a song in his ears and the taste of ash on his tongue. He wakes from those dreams with phantom pain throbbing where his right arm used to be. 

 

*

 

Humans are truly fascinating. They find comfort in whatever they want: each other, the soft noses of their pets, the pages of books, flowers. Shiro doesn’t remember, like he doesn’t remember much of where he began and how he came to be here, of where his love for flowers of all kinds started. But it is here and it is real: he speaks to the gentle petals, to the smooth stems, smiles at a particular bright bloom of a rose. Flowers have their own language that Shiro speaks, often smoother than he speaks the language of humans. 

 

He has a vague memory of thinking of the combined smells of so many flowers as strong - yet now he sniffs at them all with a smile. He keeps a bouquet of different flowers in every table in his little apartment, often accompanied with a shiny stone. Amethyst for easing anxiety and so forth. 

 

Flowers understand him. Flowers calm him. He names each bee that comes buzzing around the shop Steve and leaves a small water basin out for them. 

 

There might be a hole in Shiro’s memories the size of an entire life but as he is, right now, he can live with it. 


	2. Keith, there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is about Keith, ever the wanderer, lost something he can't even name.

Far from Appleberry are cities like New York, Tampere, Ankara, villages like Ine, Procida. Wherever the people there are, there is work to be done, lives to be lead. In the big cities the scent of apples is hidden under the smell of smoke, the sound of drunken laughter. In little, quiet villages, only silence resides. Somewhere in between the noise and the silence is Keith, world-famous yet eager to stay in the shadow. He is a traveller of the world, having walked the soft grass in the summer in Finland and splashed through warm water in Cuba. Always, always he returns to a father with strong arms and a little house, always, always Keith gets to return to a cup of coffee and his father’s gruff voice telling him he’s doing good. 

 

Keith thinks there must have been a time when Keith depended on his father and his father not on him - but that is gone. From Kieran Kogane, Keith got his pitch-black hair and the tendency to listen rather than speak. From Krolia, the mother who is more gone than present, Keith got a sharp smile and bright eyes. He’s a mixture of them both otherwise: a combination of his father’s pale skin and his mother’s brown one. Keith’s eyes a faint lilac hue neither of his parents have, like a gene that jumped over them both to give him such a look. 

 

He’s never tried to understand the relationship his parents have, at least not after he stopped asking after Krolia. 

 

After all, she returned. Years she had been somewhere else entirely, often missed, often spoken about. She had come with a hug and a towering height Keith hadn’t inherited and settled back into their lives like she had always been there. 

 

In a way, Keith should resent her. 

 

Instead, he loves her. 

 

Since Kieran absolutely refuses to move out of his desert house, claiming two little stories and a creaky pick-up truck are enough for a grizzly fireman like him, Keith finds himself keeping that little house as his homebase. Keith’s call for wandering around the world keeps him going, keeps him leaving. 

 

Perhaps it’s the leftovers of a fear of abandonment that keeps him moving. If he leaves first, they can’t leave him. 

 

“I’ll always have your back, buddy,” his father tells him whenever Keith calls him, wherever in the world he is. 

“Of course, dad,” Keith says back. 

 

If Krolia, his mother, his mother of an impressive height and a soft kiss for her man, has an explanation for the years she wasn’t there, for all the months she isn’t - then she hasn’t shared. If Keith asks, probes even a little, she merely gives him a smile and says she has to have this one secret. Everything else she would give her beloved child.

 

And Keith lets himself believe it. 

 

When the call comes to move to the city of Appleberry, a mere two hours from the little desert and the little house, in the form of a woman with white hair, Keith is intrigued, but apprehensive.

 

“I don’t care for settling down,” he murmurs to Allura Altea, with the princess-hair and shiny blue eyes. 

“I’ve heard,” Allura says sweetly. Southern India brings a flush to both of their cheeks. The wind makes Allura’s cotton dress dance, the white and silver and pastel blue of it matching with her dark skin and white hair perfectly. 

 

Objectively, Keith recognizes a beautiful woman when he sees one. But Allura is not here as a fan, but as a potential employer. 

 

“It’s just an offer,” Allura says. “I am here to visit my extended family, in fact. I have an uncle in Appleberry and a father and mother in New York. The rest are here.” She grins, a surprisingly chipper little expression. 

 

Keith vaguely recognizes her name from the slew of other tattoo artists on Instagram. 

 

“I see,” he says because he can’t figure out what else to say. “I’m… just travelling.” 

 

“I noticed. I follow you on Instagram,” Allura says and winks. She glimmers, somehow, in the sunlight, her scarves not hiding her entirely. She wears a necklace and a few tattoos proudly. 

 

“Ah,” Keith says. “Okay. I’ll. Uh. It sounds nice.” A familiar trickle of anxiety begins to gnaw at him. He hasn’t settled down in a while. He does freelance like this precisely because he can. And because there is a sizeable fortune from grandparents he has never met. Keith tugs on the tip of his long braid and nods when Allura gives him her card. 

 

“Think on it,” Allura says. “There’s my Instagram-handle and my webpage if you are not comfortable with calling me. Also look up Matt Holt and Hunk Garrett. They work with me. They are both very nice.” 

 

Keith inhales deeply. He’s used to sweating, his skin well on its way to being burned rather than tanned by now. Maybe it is time to go for a cooler climate. “I will.” 

 

“We are all fans of your work, Mr. Kogane.” 

 

Keith huffs. “Just say Keith. I’m nothing that special. Mr. Kogane is my dad.” 

 

They shake hands once more: Allura has the strong grip of a soldier, not a princess. 

 

“A job, huh?” Keith is left watching her go, wondering at the pull he feels towards this City he’s never been to. In this way Keith has always listened to his gut: went where it had told him to go and he’s been lead to good things, bad things, all things in-between. But he’s always went forward and kept moving and kept drawing. 

 

He spends the night on the couch of a retired businessman, his wife and their excited children. They all share a love for art and gift Keith with warmth of a home, even when they disapprove of his long hair and the amount of piercings and tattoos he has. The body is a canvas, Keith murmurs to them. Like this, with Keith’s connections and pull towards people and places, he always has a place to sleep at. Jokingly he calls himself a little magical to whoever houses him but truly, he merely thinks he is lucky. 

 

He leaves India behind in a day, steps into a plane with a glowing Allura, a tentative bloom of a friendship between them. The tension on Keith’s shoulders, that he didn’t even realize he’s carrying, eases.

Allura mercifully seems to realize Keith’s need for space, so she doesn’t fill the silence with small talk. She asks a few questions and leaves it at that, smiling when she says that Keith’s artwork speaks for him. 

 

Keith tries not to let warmth fill him up at that: his art is what makes flowers bloom in his heart. When his pen is on his paper or his tablet, it’s when he feels the most alive, like he’s pouring all of that he is into the shapes he does, the straight lines and the curved lines reminding him of the world itself. After high school, he had been adrift, unable to afford college, but he had been drawing since he was twelve, non-stop. Those drawings had tossed him towards getting interested in drawing and painting on human skin and thus, getting licenced as a tattoo artist. He still draws traditionally, of course. There is no greater joy for him than sit in silence or with his preferred playlist to draw, draw, draw. 

 

The universe itself seems to reveal more of its secrets and stories to Keith when he puts it on paper or tablet. 

 

Nothing of this he says out loud, merely muses as they take flight to the blindingly bright, blue sky, leaving India behind. 

 

Keith draws clouds during the flight, listening to instrumental music, unbothered by turbulence. Allura sleeps next to him, head drooping against his shoulder. He has no heart to push her away, despite her hair tickling his jaw. 

 

She is unconventional, that’s for sure. 

 

Keith stays awake through the entire flight and stares at the shifting clouds, the endless blue of the sky. He isn’t going home, but he is going somewhere interesting, that’s for sure. 

  
  


Allura awakens with a startle when the plane rumbles and starts its slow but steady descent towards the Berryvale Airport, two hours by car to Appleberry. 

“Oh, I must have really needed that sleep!” Allura says and smiles at Keith. “Sorry, I seem to have used you as a pillow.”

 

Keith hums. He brushes his shoulder, tugs his braid around his neck like a scarf. “We are nearly there. You said your uncle is here to get us?” Most of Keith’s belongings are in a suitcase and a messenger bag, the rest at his parents’ house. He needs very little to live on. 

 

“Yes!” Allura chirps her confirmation as they prepare to leave towards the baggage claim. Her pastel blue, sparkly suitcase will be easy to spot. Allura might be a couple of inches shorter than him but she walks like a queen, quickly and confidently. He has to hurry to stay with her pace. Keith knows the Berryvale Airport thoroughly, but it’s never been this full of people before: Keith spots a crying couple hugging and kissing, what looks like a grandmother with her grandchildren, even an excitedly bouncing puppy. 

 

Keith’s parents don’t know that he’s come back already, summer heat leaving him bristling and uncomfortable, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He drafts his father a text when they wait for their bags. Allura apparently does the same for her uncle because she says: 

“Uncle Coran is already waiting. Apparently he left poor Shiro in charge, swamped with orders. They really need to hire a third worker.” 

 

“Shiro?” It’s a new name for Keith. He sends his text to his father and stuffs his phone to his pocket. The braid swings as he releases it, lets it fall to his waist. 

 

Allura grabs her suitcase first and nods. She’s wearing such sparkly earrings that Keith is glad for his sunglasses. 

“Yes! You’ll meet him too, I’m certain. He is a really sweet man, but rather shy. Him and Coran work right across the street from us. Of course, if you decide to stay. You have to get a tour of our facilities.” She wiggles her fingers when she says facilities.

 

Keith finds his mouth twitching into a hesitant smile. “I see.” He stuffs this ‘Shiro’ into the back of his brain, to the same spot where all the people and names he knows are. Filed under potential future acquaintance. Whoever this Shiro is is soon forgotten, when after claiming their suitcases they meet up with one  **Coran** Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe, a fine man with fancy orange moustache. He is a whirlwind of babble and bearhugs and a fancy lacy handkerchief being used for drying his tears. He makes Keith take off his sunglasses and stares at him for a long time. 

 

“How long have you been an artist, Mr. Kogane?”

 

Keith sweats. “Long,” he mumbles.

 

Uncle Coran nods sagely. “Princess Allura has shown me your art, Mr. Kogane. I found it not up to my taste, but your talent is absolutely remarkable.”

 

Allura flushes. “Stop calling me that.” 

 

Uncle Coran huffs. “Nonsense. Once a princess, always a princess.” He then twirls around and leads them, like two soldiers with their commander, into even more sunlight and to Coran’s thankfully cool car. 

 

“Princess?” Keith murmurs to Allura as they take their seats. 

Allura groans. “I had a, uh, thing as a child. I thought I was a lost princess of a lost country.” She smiles. “The nickname stuck.” 

 

Keith hums. “Fits.” 

 

“Why, thank you, Keith.” 

 

Sunlight streams through the car windows as they begin their long drive to Appleberry. Keith closes his eyes and dozes off, hunched in the backseat. He drifts off, into dreamless sleep. Strands escaping from his braid tickle his flushed skin as he sleeps, peacefully. 

 

All around, summer heat blazes. 


	3. Shiro, still here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro lives his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allura+Shiro being buddies means the world to me okay

Little cities like Appleberry have their own problems: lack of workforce, lack of inhabitants, bigger cities eager to swallow it whole, make it into supermarkets and parking lots and skyscrapers. Appleberry holds on, however, fills itself with summer dances and flowers, the air itself constantly pleasant, even the nights safe to walk in. 

 

The city may not have a lot but it has all it needs. 

 

Much like Shiro has all he needs: a roof above his head, four walls to keep him safe and his flowers to ease his heart. A little amethyst hangs around his neck, always, smooth as silk against his fingertips whenever he reaches to stroke it. He doesn’t remember much outside of Appleberry, doesn’t feel much need to ever leave. There are grocery stores, deliveries, a movie theater. Two parks, both lush and forever green. Two restaurants. Three cafés. Shiro knows Appleberry through and through, even knows the ethereal decor of the tattoo shop, Castle of Ink Lions.   

 

Working right across the street of it never used to be a distraction. Coran’s Flowers and Castle are like day and night, as far as decor goes, stars glittering around the tattoo shop’s large windows, framing the artwork covering them. Shiro keeps the flowershop’s windows meticulously clean, however, sets a few pots in front of them and around the door when it’s particularly warm. 

 

“Good morning,” he says, even today, to the flowers. “Good morning, peonies. Good morning, roses.” He strokes the fragile petals with a careful metal finger. 

 

His gaze drifts towards the tattoo shop. Generally they open in the afternoon, unless they have reservations and Shiro can spot a flash of someone moving through the glass door. It’s not yet time to bring them new flowers, so Shiro stays put. He remembers the upcoming new worker, Keith with his geometric tattoos and sullen pale face and flushes. Maybe they haven’t arrived yet. Rubbing his neck, Shiro returns inside. 

 

Coran usually leaves opening the shop for him, which Shiro doesn’t mind. Mornings tend to be quiet, they let him have space and time to think. Sometimes even too much and then it helps to smell the flowers and take a breather. 

 

Something has always been at the back of Shiro’s head, a reminder that he’s missing most years of his life. He knows what Coran has told him: dead parents in an accident, a life in a bigger City, move to Appleberry to make his anxiety and flashes of pain better, away from the busy life in a city of millions. But there is much Coran can’t know or can’t tell him and no matter how Shiro searches or asks, it’s like he didn’t exist before coming here. 

 

He only needs to trust what he has right here and right now. 

 

And ignore that there is so much missing, the building blocks of Takashi Shirogane kicked out from under him until he is floating in a space of nothing. 

 

Thinking of such things too much always drives him into further anxiety so he indulges in a lonely game of cards behind the counter, waiting for a call or a walk-in. The cards were bought from a self-proclaimed druid who came across Appleberry two years ago. They feature men and women with pointy ears, with crows and lively faces. A sense of nostalgia washes over Shiro every time he touches them but he deals with it with a smile and a huff. Since his amnesia seems to be of the forever staying kind, he’s dealing with it. 

 

He plays a few minutes more. He turns the volume of the radio further up, filling the flower shop with instrumental jazz. Idly Shiro scrolls through their reservations and deliveries for today, then finds himself on social media. On Instagram, to be specific. On blackfaepaladin’s account. His location has been changed into Appleberry, Castle of Ink Lions. 

 

Shiro is breathless at the sight of this man’s beauty and quickly closes the window when the little door above the flower shop's door clinks.

 

“Welc- oh, hi Allura!” Shiro’s face brightens with a smile. He steps away from his counter and envelopes her into a careful hug. 

 

Allura laughs, getting on her tiptoes to hug him back properly. “It’s so good to see you after so long!” 

 

“You are practically glowing,” Shiro says gently as she withdraws from his arms. Shiro returns to his counter and Allura takes a seat on the bar stool next to him. 

 

She’s dressed for the summer, her long white hair intricately braided, reminders of henna in her hands. “Oh, am I?” She winks. “The vacation did me good. And let me approach our elusive new worker.” 

 

Shiro hums. “I looked him up. Interesting style.” He bites his lip when Allura shoots him a look.

 

“Interesting,” she says. “That’s certainly it. He is quite the lone wolf but he accepted the offer and has taken residence with Hunk and Romelle. Apparently their cat has taken a liking to him instantly.”

 

Shiro hums again. He doesn’t think about Keith’s long hair. Or pretty eyes. Or the hands that had shown up in more than one picture. 

 

Allura watches himm, her smile coy. “He’s getting a tour right now. He’s nice, although quite quiet. Do you want to come over?” 

 

Shiro clears his throat. He makes a face at her but can’t even pretend to be irritated, because it’s her, one of his dearest friends, after such a long time. “I- I have to watch the shop.” He knows the taste of a lie, never quite comfortable with outright lies, just going around the truth. 

 

He gets a raised eyebrow in response. “Alright, I won’t pressure you. Just know that he’ll be around.” Allura brushes her skirt. “Anyway. Have you given thought to what sort of a picture you would like?” Her own tattoos are few, mostly on her torso, but a row of blue roses climbs over her left wrist to her shoulder. 

 

Shiro taps the counter and stares at his favourite tulip, in its little vase right next to the counter. It’s not for sale because it’s his, meant for his smile. “Not really.” He rubs his neck. “I’m not certain anything would fit me that well.” 

 

Allura scoffs. “Nonsense! With your looks, anything would go. Not to mention that there is a lot of,” she gestures vaguely to his entire body, “space.” 

 

When he blushes, she grins. “Ah, now there is that face I have been missing. Had any more suitors lately?” 

 

Her gentle teasing makes him groan. “Don’t remind me - it doesn’t even help that most of the folk in here already know I’m gay - instead of their daughters, they want me to meet their sons. And nephews. And cousins. And themselves.” Shiro sighs. “I clearly need to hang a sign around my neck that says please leave me alone.”

 

Allura squeezes his arm gently. “Just say the name and I’ll tell them to back off.” 

 

Shiro huffs. “It’s fine. Well, frustrating, but fine. They don’t mean any harm.” Not ready yet, is what goes through his head when he thinks about a relationship or romance in general. Much less sex. He just isn’t ready. Especially - 

 

“Have you heard - “ Allura starts, but trails off when Shiro begins to look troubled. “I don’t mean to pry,” she says. “You don’t have to tell me.” She ruffles his hair, has to reach quite far to do so. He lowers his head, bashful. 

 

“No, I haven’t heard. That’s what happens when you have a not-so-mutual breakup.” Ah, Adam. That one name that Shiro can’t really stand to hear, even after almost two years. Adam had loved him, that long summer they had spent together in Appleberry, but then winter arrived and Adam’s frustrations grew. In a way Shiro can’t blame him, not really. Shiro isn’t who he used to be, has no idea who he used to be, barely exists at all. His anxiety gets the better off him and phantom pain still claws at his scars. His nightmares are full of jagged teeth. 

 

No. Shiro can’t blame Adam for leaving, not really. 

 

Keeping in contact had been successful for a while, but then - nothing. It had taken a chunk out of Shiro’s self-confidence to not check up on him on social media, full aware that Adam is off to bigger things, probably and has already forgotten a summer fling. 

 

“Oh, Shiro,” Allura says. She squeezes his bicep again. 

 

Shiro’s nose wrinkles. “Hush. It’s alright. I will come over someday soon. After all, you guys still want our flowers.” 

 

Allura’s blue eyes sparkle. “Certainly we do! They’re quite lovely!” She leans closer like a co-conspirator. “And you might catch a glimpse of our newest worker.” 

 

Shiro gives her a gentle nudge. “Are you trying to woo me for Keith?” His cheeks feel warm. 

 

Allura giggles. “Just joking with you. Honestly, come over. Or come over to my house. I am eager to have a little return-party for myself. I shall invite everyone possible.”

 

Now it’s Shiro’s turn to squint at her. “Even Pidge’s nosy friend?” 

 

Allura nudges him. “Shush, you. He can be funny when he wants to and stops playing around.” She twirls a lock of white hair around her finger. “Besides, he bought me these earrings. Saying they go with my eyes.” 

 

Shiro smiles. “Just let the kid out of his misery already. He’s smitten with you.” 

 

Allura huffs. “Look at you giving me love advice.” She gets up and twirls, picks up a pastel blue orchidea. “I know what I’m doing.”

 

“Certainly.”  _ More than me, _ Shiro thinks idly. Allura’s cheer grabs him and soon they’re dancing in the little space left between the flowers, Allura giggling when her skirt makes petals fly. Only Coran’s arrival puts a stop to it, his boisterous laughter and bear hug given to his niece - as if he didn’t fetch her from the airport - shoving Shiro aside. Shiro goes back to his spot behind the counter gladly, cheeks flushed. 

 

“How is business this morning, my boy?” Coran asks after they have sent Allura off with her pretty little orchidea. 

 

“Quiet.” Shiro brings back his card game. “We have a delivery in the afternoon though, all the way to Garrison campus. I guess those students are having parties again. I didn’t start with the bouquets yet.” 

 

Coran claps him in the back and nods. Today, he’s wearing a Hawaii shirt and dress pants and flip flops. As usual, he’s blindingly orange hair is swept off his majestic forehead. Truly, Coran is a sight to see. “Do that now, my boy, you know what to do, but do remember to water those peonies and do inventory on the - “  

 

Shiro rolls his eyes, fondly. “Yes, Coran.” 

 

Coran huffs. “When will you call your dear old uncle “uncle”?”. 

 

“Anytime you want, dear old uncle,” Shiro says and departs to the backroom to the sound of Coran’s guffaws. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry this is such a nothing happens-chapter ahskldg
> 
> art i've drawn for this story  
> [Keith](https://twitter.com/allodoleart/status/1126893562598187009)
> 
> [Shiro](https://twitter.com/allodoleart/status/1127167170339799040)
> 
> [another Shirox2](https://twitter.com/allodoleart/status/1122866611688497152)
> 
> [another Keithx2](https://twitter.com/allodoleart/status/1123253412555108354)


	4. Keith, here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith arrives to Appleberry.

The first thing to notice in the City of Appleberry is the scent. For someone mostly used to city smoke, the sweet scent of ganja or fresh air of nature, Keith finds the scent of the city rather calming. The very air seems to quiver with delight when Keith arrives. He shudders, takes a breather. 

 

“You alright?” Allura asks, leading him to a rustic two-story building, keys in hand. 

 

“Mn,” hums Keith and follows her. “Air smells different.” 

 

“It should. Appleberries don’t grow much elsewhere,” Allura says and opens the door. “Hello, darlings! I bring your new tenant!”

 

Keith shuffles by the door, brought to awkwardness by a new place. The apartment proves to be rather small, but cozy, the homeliness increased by the arrival of a slender blonde woman. 

 

“Hey!” She shouts with delight and jumps, Allura catches her easily and twirls her around. Both of them laugh, press wet kisses to each other’s cheeks before remembering they have company.

 

Keith tugs on his braid. “Uh.” 

 

“Hi, you must be Keith!” The blonde woman says and grabs his hand, shakes it vigorously. She is small, her long pigtails reaching her waist. “I’m Romelle. Hunk’s at work and I’m kinda in the middle of something, but I wanted to get you settled in!”

 

Keith shakes her hand. “Hi.” 

 

Allura smacks her lips. “I want to go check how things are at the Castle. You’re good here, Romes? Right?” 

 

Romelle gives her another hug and nods. “I’m a big girl now. Keith is in good hands.” 

 

Keith shuffles his feet again. He takes off his shoes and steps further into the warm little home, glancing up the narrow staircase. 

 

“Alright then, I’ll run off to leave you two,” Allura says. “I’m so glad you came with me, Keith. I’m sure you’ll be a great addition to our little family!” 

 

Keith flushes. “Right.” Family? “Okay. Have a good day, Allura.” 

 

Allura nods and she’s off with a whisper of her long dress, the door clicking shut behind her. She leaves Romelle and Keith to the entryway, her with her pastel coloured clothes and him with his ripped jeans. Romelle stares at him for a second before puffing up and nodding. “Alright then. Tour!” She claps her hands, so cheerful and twirls around, gesturing for Keith to follow. He does, as she shows him the cozy kitchen, the living room with its massive couch, door leading to the tiny, yet clearly well cared for yard. Then Romelle leads him upstairs to show off the master bedroom, well organized bathroom and then the extra room. 

 

“You’re very welcome here,” she says. “For as long as you want.” 

 

Keith nods, finally lets his bags drop. “I - “ He’s slept on people’s couches for years. He’s camped on sand and on tree roots. He knows he has friends all over the world, people interested in his art, people whose art he is himself interested in. But he’s never met Hunk or Romelle. He’s never met Allura before. Yet here they are, just on the basis of what his mind and hands have come up with, offering him an entire bed and an entire room. “Thank you,” Keith whispers. 

 

The room is impersonal, clearly expecting its tenant to decorate it to their heart’s content. 

 

Romelle hums next to him. “There’s no problem. This room has been gathering dust, since Hunk got his studio and since I mostly work at, well, work.” She giggles. “As long as you need. I know apartment-hunting is awful. And they’re not cheap anywhere.” 

 

“Mm,” says Keith. The staggering amount of money on his bank account burns him and he rubs his neck. “Thank you, still. I’ll settle down, you can go back to your work.”

 

Romelle nods and dances away, as graceful as a faerie princess.

 

Keith closes the door behind her and sits down on the bed. The bed cover is a nondescript gray one, with faint pastel blue flowers. Keith runs his fingers through the soft fabric and smiles. The house is silent. 

 

Keith hasn’t quite learned how settle down. He hasn’t been able to call his father’s desert house in a while, its atmosphere stained by Kieran Kogane’s long dark moods, Krolia’s long unexplained absences. Keith used to be angrier about his parents’ tumultuous relationship, the long years when it was just him and his dad, trying to survive but still loving the harsh beauty of the desert. 

 

But now Keith just loves them. He knows it’s love now, at twenty-five and three months, he knows it’s love because Krolia runs her hands through his hair and calls him her little star, because Kieran still gives Keith the same kind of bear hugs he used to give when Keith was a whole lot smaller. 

 

It feels good to be loved. 

 

Keith flops down on the bed and covers his face, groans. Yet.  _ Yet.  _ It’s why he goes through countries, cultures, worlds, afraid of leaving his roots anywhere. 

 

He looks at his left arm, the little tree inked into his skin right above his elbow. There are no leaves in the tree, it’s a dead, pitch black corpse of a tree. It’s one of the first he ever got, back when he was sixteen, a reminder that no matter the situation, he is rootless. 

 

He’s never admitted the reason for the tree to his parents. He loves them, he does, but the desert house is theirs and not Keith’s. 

 

He sighs again, deeply. The house has no words for him. 

 

*

 

Hunk Garrett, Romelle’s live-in partner, appears in the evening. He takes one look at Keith and crushes him into a warm hug. Hunk is a large man, both of his thick arms covered with intricate tattoos and he radiates warmth. 

“Welcome,” he says and warmly squeezes Keith’s shoulder. “Eaten anything yet?” 

 

Keith rubs his arm and nods. 

 

“Good, good!” Next, Hunk grabs Romelle into a hug and kisses her forehead. They make a sweet couple. Romelle has to get on her tiptoes to kiss Hunk and politely Keith turns away to give them privacy. 

 

“Keith actually cooked,” Romelle says. “He made some absolutely fantastic chickpea curry!”

 

Keith shuffles his feet. “There’s some left,” he murmurs. He rubs his arm again, thumb brushing over that faded little tree. 

 

Hunk’s face brightens, his eyes a warm chocolate brown. “Sounds good. I am actually a little hungry.” He pats his belly and heads for the kitchen. “Come have a seat with me, Keith!”

 

Keith does, as does Romelle. The kitchen is easily the biggest area of the little apartment, opening up to the living room. It’s light and airy and clearly well-used. Keith had offered to make his curry on a whim, found himself a little shaky at the thought of cooking for someone after a long time. So he takes a seat and accepts Romelle’s offer of tea. 

 

It gives him time to watch the couple flutter around the kitchen, clearly used to being in each other’s space. Keith can’t relate: he’s never had a relationship, kept his friends at an arm’s length. But it makes him smile, to watch the easiness with which Romelle flutters around Hunk and tip-toes to give him a peck when he warms up a plate of curry. 

Keith sits up straighter when the couple sits again. Romelle pushes a steaming mug of tea towards him and holds her own between her slender hands. She smiles brightly when he sniffs it. 

“It’s from Coran’s shop. Well, Shiro is the one who usually makes the herbal mixtures as he has gentle hands. Coran’s words, not mine. Or Shiro’s. In fact, don’t say that to Shiro, he gets a little flustered if his looks get discussed - “ she trails off. And clears her throat. 

 

Hunk snorts. 

“That’s true. You’re probably gonna see him too tomorrow,” he says to Keith. “He tends to deliver flowers to our Castle. Allura loves to have flowers in the main room. And Shiro makes the bouquets too.” 

 

Keith hums. 

 

Hunk taps his fingers on the table, then rubs his stubbled jaw. “Me and Romelle like to bake occasionally, by the way. You’re not allergic to anything, are you?” He digs his fork into the curry. 

 

Keith shakes his head. “Sounds nice.” He follows as Hunk takes a bite, eyes visibly brightening. 

 

“This is very good, Keith!”

 

“Ah, thank you.” Keith sips his tea. “Anyone else I should know about or expect to meet?”

 

While Hunk munches on the curry, Romelle sips her tea too. “Allura probably mentioned Matt. He’s really nice! But he loves being a prankster. He hasn’t grown out of that ever.” She shakes her head, clearly fond. “He mostly does the morning shifts and lot of the paperwork at the Castle. Well, there’s also Pidge. She’s Matt’s little sister but she goes to an university out of town. She visits a lot so don’t be surprised. Also Lance.” Romelle grins now. “He comes with his own warning.”

 

Keith squints. “Why?” 

 

Romelle laughs. “He, uh, he used to be. Frustrating. To be around. He thought himself a God’s gift to women. Well, still kinda does. But your new illustrious boss and him kinda have a thing.”

 

Keith sips his tea and shrugs. “Sounds, uh, lively.” He keeps his gaze on his new friends. They watch him right back. Keith’s leg begins to bounce.

 

“It gets lively when all of us get together,” Hunk says. “Man, this curry is seriously amazing - where in the world did you learn to cook like this?” 

 

Keith bites his lip. “Here and there.” It is mostly the truth. “Get together? Is everyone friends in here?” 

Romelle and Hunk share a look, a shrug. Hunk snorts and gets himself another plate and a beer for all three of them. The drink is as golden as the sunsets Keith loves and he sniffs at it tentatively. 

 

“We have quite a lot of people in here, but honestly, it’s more right to call Appleberry a town rather than a city,” Romelle says and sips her beer like she sipped her tea. “But yeah, we have a lot of friends. We usually gather at Allura’s, since she and Coran have the biggest apartment. We just watch movies or get drunk or high together.” She giggles. “We’ve done so pretty much since we all turned the legal age. Except Shiro, of course.”

 

Keith drinks his beer. He isn’t a big fan of alcohol in general, but to be fair, he is a guest. “Except him?” 

 

While Hunk eats, Romelle smiles at Keith. “He only moved here like four years ago. Yeah, I think it was around four years. And it took him some time to warm up to us. Shiro’s been through some rough patches and he gets a little shy.” Romelle’s eyes twinkle. Much the same way as Allura’s had when she had mentioned Shiro. “But he’s a sweet guy and a great friend. Awful in the kitchen, though.” That seems to be a common joke, because Hunk begins guffawing, barely managing to swallow. 

 

“Please, don’t remind me - I love him but I’ll never let him inside my kitchen again.”

 

Romelle lifts an eyebrow. “Your kitchen?”

 

Hunk gives her a kiss to her smooth cheek. “Our kitchen.”

 

Keith huffs. “Tell me more,” he finds himself saying. He finds himself smiling, even hiding a laugh carefully when his new friends begin to share stories of their friends. Keith hasn’t met them all yet, but he quietly hopes he will. It would be good to find a place to set his roots in and ease his heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, come yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/allodole) ;)


	5. Shiro, here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro meets Keith.
> 
> Somebody is watching.

The morning is quiet and still, the radio on the lowest volume possible. Shiro had woken up with a twitch on his leg, a nervousness he can’t quite shake. He keeps fiddling with the amethyst hanging from his neck, its little edges grounding him, comforting him. For once, Coran is up bright and early right with him, sipping on some sugary sweet concoction that can barely be called coffee. 

 

Shiro gladly takes a similar drink and barely makes a face. Sugar is nice and all, but too much is too much. He’s vibrating with restless energy despite his usual morning run, so he resolves to making more nice bouquets to sell and leaves Coran to his paperwork. 

 

They get a couple of customers this morning, an old lady from other side of town that Shiro can’t remember the name of - but she knows him. She pats his bicep and calls him Mr. Kashi but Shiro lets it slide. She’s sweet and hasn’t tried to pair him off to a grandson or a grandnephew. Another customer comes to buy birthday flowers for her girl, blushing furiously when Coran congratulates her and recommends a bouquet of burning red roses. 

 

“Cliché,” Shiro murmurs with a smile. 

 

“Cliché works,” Coran says boisterously and caresses his moustache. “The princess requested that you bring some peonies. Like the bouquet you’re holding right now.” He grins.

 

Shiro holds up the bouquet. The flowers are vibrant and their scent pleasant. Shiro flushes when he realizes one of the meanings of peonies: love, especially between strangers. “Y-yeah. I’ll bring it.” 

 

“That’s my good man!”

 

Shiro prepares the bouquet for delivery, doesn’t wrap it like he would if it was anywhere else but across the street. He ties a pink little bow at the stems and smiles at it. He slaps a cap on his head and heads out. 

 

The road isn’t wide, but Shiro hesitates long enough to cross it that it might as well be. Is his sleeveless tank top too much? Too little? Is he too sweaty? Is Keith even there? Shiro pulls the cap down further until it shadows his eyes properly. Jesus, he’s nearly thirty and he’s like this at the thought of seeing someone attractive. 

 

All of his friends are attractive, objectively, but Keith? Keith has a beauty beyond words. 

 

Shiro swallows nervously as he makes his way to the Castle, knows to walk right in. 

 

He tries not to be too disappointed that it’s Matt at the counter instead of Keith. Matt looks up from his bookkeeping and grins. 

“Hey, man!” Matt Holt is a rogue and a rebel, a massive nerd who had listened to Shiro’s grievances more than once in the quiet Appleberry nights. They had shared a couple of fun drunken rolls in the figurative hay but departed from those as friends. Matt is tattooed to his neck and specializes in animal tattoos. His own favourite one is a sneaky fox, running across his left arm. 

 

Shiro bumps fists with him and smiles. “Is - “ a heartbeat of a pause, when Shiro arranges himself and remembers who he’s here to see, “Allura in?” 

 

Matt looks at him, hair in a messy long ponytail, a mischievous look in his eyes. “Allura is in. With Keith.” 

 

Shiro fidgets. He lays down the bouquet. “Right. Well, she, uh, she requested these.” Pretty, vibrant peonies. Various meanings, but mostly love. 

 

Matt nods, fiddling with his earring. “Just walk on in, flower boy. She’s showing him some shit.”  

 

Shiro grabs the flowers again. “Y-yeah. Sure.” He steps behind the counter and gets a clap on the back from a deviously smiling Matt. “Stop it,” Shiro huffs.

 

“I did nothing,” Matt says. “I just know what your type is.” 

 

Before Shiro can splutter out any reply, Matt has given him a shove deeper into the tattoo studio. Were Shiro any smaller, any less wider, it might have even hurt him. He sighs and begins fanning himself with his cap, painfully aware how messy his snow white hair is. Heart thumping loudly in his chest, he heads to where he can hear muffled voices. 

 

Allura’s laughter rings like a melody of summer. Shiro smiles and knocks on the door, already opened up a crack. 

“Allura?” 

 

She opens, eyes widening with delight. “Oh, you’re quick! Come in, come in.” 

 

Shiro does, but stills because there he is, finally: Keith, just as long-legged and long-haired as he is in pictures. If Shiro wasn’t imagining it, Keith’s eyes had widened a fraction at seeing him. 

 

“Hello,” Keith murmurs and his voice is husky, smooth. 

 

Shiro shoves the flowers at Allura who takes them without a word and shakes Keith hand. “Hi, h-hi! I’m Shiro. Or Takashi. But mostly Shiro. Only uncle Coran calls me Takashi when he wants to make sure I know I’ve done wrong - ah, I bring flowers here sometimes, I work across the street - I like your tattoos!” He snaps his mouth shut when Keith’s mouth curls into a little smile. His handshake is very strong. 

 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Keith.” 

 

That name, that face - something about him whispers familiarity to Shiro, beyond just stalking Keith’s Instagram page. The purple tint in Keith’s eyes is intriguing, the royal curve of his jaw is titillating. 

 

Shiro simultaneously wants to brush his cheek and step away, run away. His heart thuds. Attraction, yes. Something else? Yes. 

 

“You too,” Shiro says and pulls his hand back. He’s silently grateful that Keith’s eyes don’t linger on the prosthetic or the scar slashed across Shiro’s nose. 

 

“Cute,” Allura murmurs. “Yeah, as you’ve heard, Shiro, I’ve been chatting with Keith about how we do things here. He says he’s mostly been a freelancer but I am absolutely convinced of his talent and I want him to be a part of our family, right here in the Castle.” She sniffs the flowers and practically glows. “So of course, I hope you two will get along!” Something about her gaze is irritating, her smile turning into a smirk too like those who get too close to Shiro’s skin.

 

He rubs his amethyst pendant again. “Sure. If you vouch for him, then we’re half-friends already,” he says and aims a sunny smile at Keith. 

 

Keith doesn’t smile back, but he nods. In pictures, he’s breathtaking, but up close, face to face. There is something about him that is like an enchantment, meant to both push and pull Shiro. Something inside Shiro’s chest burns, yearns for things he can’t name. “I- I have to get back to work. I hope those peonies do.”

 

Allura nods. “Of course. Come for lunch with me and Keith later on, will you?” 

 

Shiro fidgets. He throws a glance at Keith, who’s still watching him. “Maybe later. I already promised to eat with, uh - ” He trails off, cheeks burning. 

 

Allura’s eyebrow raises. She doesn’t call him out. “Fine, I won’t force you. But hopefully Keith is here to stay. Don’t get too starstruck now.”

 

Shiro stammers and clears his throat. “Shush. Nice meeting you, uh, Keith - “ it is both ash and a delicacy to have that name on his tongue, “- and just call us when you want more flowers. And all. Talk more later, Allura.” 

 

“Sure,” Allura says and waves him off. 

 

Shiro’s heart doesn’t stop racing until he’s all the way back in Coran’s Flowers. Matt had pat his back on the way out, with a knowledgeable smirk. Shiro pinches his cheek hard in return. 

 

“You love me, Shirogane, don’t even try!” Matt yells after him. 

 

Love. What does Shiro know of it? He can’t tell if the tremble of his heart that he felt around Adam was love. He can’t tell if the thunderous butterflies he has means love when he sees Keith. He cares for the friends he’s gotten here, certainly, in their smiles is happiness, in their arms he is safe. But love? Love feels staggering, huge. 

 

Shiro doesn’t like to think of himself as a coward but maybe, just maybe, in this matter he allows himself to be. 

 

*

 

The very energy of Appleberry seems to change with the arrival of one Keith Kogane. Appleberry Festival buzzes with its last days, Keith the talk of the town. Shiro delivers more flowers with Coran and is absurdly glad for how hot it is - thus, nobody notices how flushed Shiro goes over the mere mention of the enchanting man. Everytime Shiro had thought of going over to the Castle for the past few days, he had found something else to do, something else to think. He had procrastinated on the weekly delivery of flowers too, had made Coran do it instead. 

 

Shiro hadn’t missed the usual movie night at Allura and Coran’s spacious apartment and had been glad to find that Keith hadn’t joined. Apparently, he had decided to have an early night for himself.  

 

Everytime Shiro thinks of Keith, his throat clogs up, his mouth goes dry, his heart starts to beat. It much feels like a heart attack or a start of a panic attack, driving Shiro into the tiny town gym or to his flowers. So he stays away, avoids the Castle like the plague and walks on tiptoes. It’s not Keith’s fault. It’s just Shiro, unable to deal with what his messy heart is dealing him. 

 

Five days after that fateful first meeting, Keith arrives to Shiro’s dreams. 

 

He’s as pale and beautiful as awake, his hair falling free like a shiny river. He stares at Shiro, lips parting, eyes gleaming like amethysts. Keith speaks but Shiro hears nothing. 

 

“Keith?” 

 

Keith speaks, but Shiro hears - 

 

The tick of the clock on his night table, the hoot of an owl right behind his window. Shiro is breathing hard when he scrambles to sit up. Keith’s eyes are seared into his heart.

 

Shiro squeezes his eyes closed, opens them again. He sits on the edge of his bed and presses the heel of his hand to his eye. 

 

He knows dreams, he’s had nightmares all his life - he’s sure of it, doesn’t quite remember it, whatever is left of his childhood is a blank white light, the roots of his life left dangling in a void that is Shiro’s mind. But this is a dream of a man who hasn’t left Shiro’s heart. 

 

Maybe it means absolutely nothing. Shiro gets up on shaky, bare feet. The clock’s glowing numbers tell him it’s a mere three in the morning, three hours too early for Shiro’s usual time. But his heart is racing too fast for him to be able to calm down again.

 

With a sigh, he grabs his prosthetic from its charging station and puts it on, used to the process of it already. A few clicks, a few turns, a hiss of the intricate machinery that keeps it going and it’s in place. He takes a few moments to breathe and adjust to the weight of an entire forearm. Coran has had no answers to how Shiro came by such a technological marvel and digging deeper into his own brain for answers has only ever resulted in a panic attack. So Shiro lives with this odd, gleaming arm, powerful enough to crush rock into dust, yet careful enough to hold a single flower stem without causing damage to it. 

 

He goes to make himself a cup of coffee. This early in the morning, the air is somewhat cool. Dressed in nothing but a crappy pair of superhero-boxers and bunny slippers, Shiro heads to his little living room and proceeds to stare out of the window. 

 

His apartment gives way to one of the two parks of Appleberry, this one completely devoid of life at this hour. Shiro has walked that little sandy path numerous times, knows each tree, each bench. He’s planted some of those flowers himself, a couple of years ago with Coran. 

 

The coffee is dark and delicious, hot on Shiro’s tongue. 

 

Sleep lingers in Shiro’s heavy limbs, his eyesight blurry. He watches, idly taking in the familiar sight of the park. 

 

He blinks.

 

Wait. 

 

He blinks again, squints, presses his free hand to the glass. It could be a dog walker. An animal. A figment of Shiro’s imagination.

 

Shiro stares hard at the shadow beneath the tree, too blurry to make out anything but darkness. 

 

Shiro’s heart begins to race, his breathing quickening. His neck prickles.

 

He’s being stared at. 

 

He just knows it. He’s being stared at. 

 

Shiro swallows hard. “Who are you?” His breath fogs up the glass. He wipes, coffee forgotten in hand. The shadow seems to quiver, form into something more discernible. Shiro stares harder, nose pressed against the glass. He hears only the rushing of his blood, his own breaths, verging on panic. 

 

The unseen eyes stay on him, staring. The feeling of intense hatred washes over Shiro so quickly that he recoils from the window, half-empty coffee mug shattering on the ground. Shiro stumbles and falls, hits himself on the floor. In those few seconds of not looking, the pressure, the hatred is gone. When Shiro looks again, standing on shaky legs and the slowly spreading puddle of lukewarm coffee, there are no shadows but the ones the trees make. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell at me on twitter @ allodole ;)


	6. Keith, here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith contemplates and tries to calm himself with a joint. 
> 
> Something watches him too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk why keith smoking a joint seems like a keith-thing to do in this fic but that's what he does
> 
> (don't do drugs- but if you do, do it responsibly please)

It doesn’t take long for Keith to start feeling like he’s been adopted. Hunk and Romelle are both perfectly accommodating, although Romelle is incredibly chatty and doesn’t quite always notice when Keith would rather retreat to his own peace and quiet. Matt Holt comments on his strong handshake and invites him out for drinks.

 

The Castle of Inked Lions is inside a one-story building, snuggled between a half-empty storage space and a grocery store. The inside layout is simple enough, most of the walls decorated with art. On the very first day there, Keith still finds himself lost, half in admiration, half in terror. He’s wandered in open space for a long time that he can’t let go of his niggling doubts of this being a good idea.

 

But Allura and her friends take to him immediately, open their arms and hearts to him and Keith takes a careful step towards them, takes their hands. It’s not surprise him and this Lance don’t get along much in the first time they meet: Lance finds Keith too abrasive and Keith finds Lance too irritating. 

 

Maybe as a teen who was even worse at dealing with his emotions than Keith is now, he would have snapped back. Now he figures Lance just doesn’t know him yet - and Keith doesn’t know him. Despite that, there is a family here and Keith has been taken in, without question and without doubt.

 

He tells all of this in a message to his father. 

 

Kieran Kogane has always been a little technologically challenged, but he manages a reply back. 

 

The emotionless, emoji-less style makes Keith snort. Few seconds later, his phone rings. 

 

“Hey, kiddo.” 

 

“Hey, pa. Tired of typing, are you?” Keith huffs and flops on his bed. Somewhere downstairs, he faintly hears the TV. 

 

His father snorts. “Don’t you sass me. Just wanted to hear your voice. You told me of your new friends. But how are you?” 

Keith sighs. “I’m fine, pa. I really am.” 

 

“Really?” 

 

“Really.” 

 

“And - uh, how long - ah, forget it. You are so much like your mother sometimes. I forget it.” 

 

Keith can imagine his father rolling his eyes. “I can’t help wanting to wander.” 

 

A sigh. “I know, son. When I met your ma, well. I always knew this was a woman I would never be able to hold down. No matter how much I wanted to. I can only be happy that she returned to me in the end and still does.” 

 

Keith’s heart clenches. He closes his eyes, inhales a hasty little sob. His mind is at war with his soul. He wants to leave. He wants to stay. He wants to leave. He wants to stay. “And me?” It comes out as a whisper. Maybe some part of him will always be a little boy, so tall in his father’s broad shoulders. 

 

Kieran laughs. “Just come see your dear old pa once in a while, will you, kiddo? Let’s go racin’ like we used to.” 

 

Keith inhales, exhales quickly and laughs too. “You’re the reason for so many skinned knees, pa.”

 

“Hey, I taught you to wear a helmet and all! And always patched you up!”

 

“That you did, pa.That you did. Yeah. Let’s. Is my old girl alright?” Keith begins fiddling with his hair, the long, shiny strands flowing free around him. 

 

“I’ve been keeping your baby in working condition, don’t ya worry. Still can’t beat my Road Rager.” 

 

Keith snorts. “Road Rager? Wasn’t it Desert Fury last week?” 

 

“Don’t ya judge me, boy!” Kieran chuckles. “My darling hoverbike has many names. Anyways - are you comin’ for a visit anytime soon?” 

 

“I don’t - “ Keith swallows. “I don’t know. Maybe soon. I just came from India. I have to settle in here.” Keith’s smile has faded. He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths. “Has ma contacted you?” 

 

Kieran sighs. “Yes, but rather rarely. You know how she is. She sent a message last week and hasn’t been reading any I left for her.” Another sigh, deeper. Keith doesn’t have to see his dad to know he’s sat down, is probably hanging his head. “I hope she is keeping herself safe.”

 

Keith bites his lip. “Why wouldn’t she be? Nobody can harm Krolia.”

 

Kieran hums. “Of course. You know your dear old pa will nurse her back to health if she comes back bruised - “

 

“No details, please,” Keith murmurs and is glad to hear his father laugh again. “She will come back. She always does.” For you. Those long years of uncertainty, a little boy Keith had been missing his mother, remembering only a warm hand and a gentle kiss on his forehead. Those long years of solitude exist within him, shaping him into the Keith that exists today. Maybe some part of Keith will always be that little boy, growing up with a workaholic father and an absentee mother. 

 

Keith’s heart never did grow cynical, bitter enough for hatred. For that, he is grateful. 

 

“She will,” his father murmurs. “We’ll go stargazing then, just the three of us. How’s that sound?”

 

Keith’s heart clenches tight tight tight so tight and he can’t bear it, he can’t. “Sounds good, pa.” He draws a deep breath. “Hey, pa.”

 

“Yes, kiddo?”

 

“I do love you, you know.” 

 

Kieran draws breath, sighs. “I love you too, kiddo. You’re my only child, after all.” 

 

Keith smiles. “And you’re my only father.”

 

It’s so good to hear his father laugh. Keith listens as Kieran begins to tell him of a fishing trip to the lake a couple of hours away - of his work, of the boys and girls at work who work under him and often gift him with donuts. Keith teases him about getting a belly from all those donuts and Kieran laughs. 

 

They say their goodbyes in few words and don’t stay on to wait for the other to hang up first. 

 

*

 

Keith is fine with the way things are, truly. He is fine with the friendships he is developing. They’re all warm-hearted people, Lance is frustratingly loud but he is barely there - Matt is a mischievous prankster, like a fox spirit in the shape of a man but he instructs Keith calmly and clearly. Keith spends time learning the ropes, familiarizing himself again with the tattoo equipment at hand at the Castle. Today it’s Allura in all her sparkliness as his mentor, showing him the break room, snuggled in between two separate tattoo studios. Even the break room is decorated with art pieces, some framed, some clearly stuck on the wall for inspiration. It’s not the cleanest break room, but it is a nice little room no less.

 

The room feels instantly smaller when the man walks in. 

 

A noise whistles in Keith’s ears. He barely manages through an introduction, his own hand completely engulfed in the bigger one. Shiro proves to be just as he was spoken about: he blushes under his cap, an endearing floof of white hair sticking out from under it. Yet nobody had told Keith of the muscles.

 

Keith likes to think he’s in good shape himself, but Shiro is like a Greek god carved from stone, the angel set free that Michelangelo spoke about. Keith’s brain is mush long after the beautiful man has left. 

 

“Are you alright?” Is all Allura asks. 

 

“Perfectly fine,” Keith murmurs. He can’t understand why his heart races so. 

 

Less he understands when he dreams of Shiro, that same night. Keith can’t quite make up the face, can’t understand the antlers growing out of the head, but it is Shiro - nobody else Keith knows has such strength in his body, nobody else has hair the colour of snow. 

 

Shiro is clad in starlight in the dream, hands reaching towards Keith. 

 

Shiro seems to speak, but Keith hears not a single word.

 

The dream ends with a gasp and a tremble. 

 

The same dream comes the next night and the next and the next, always the same blurring of Shiro’s face, always the same antlers, always the same glittering starlight. Always Shiro turns to Keith in the dream, always speaks. 

 

Keith never understands him, never hears him. 

 

He wakes up frustrated, the fifth night. It’s three o’clock in the morning, the house utterly silent. Keith digs out for his little pouch of ganja with shaking hands and heads downstairs to the yard. He sits down under the tree and gazes at the woods starting just a few metres away from these little backyards. 

 

He blows a puff of smoke towards the sky. 

 

His hands don’t stop trembling. 

 

He blinks. His heart beats. Tha-dump. Tha-dump. Tha-dump. Something flickers between the trees. 

 

Keith lowers the joint, stares. His neck begins to prickle. Something moves again, clearly, obviously, letting out no sound whatsoever. 

 

“Hello?” Keith raises his voice, stands up. His legs tremble in the coolness of the night. The shadows quiver between the trees, under the moon. Keith lifts his shoulders to his ears, takes a step back from the woods. His neck prickles harder and Keith knows, Keith just knows a presence is there, right there, with him in the night. 

 

Whatever Keith’s dream was, it is gone now, leaving him standing bare footed and cold, half-lit joint in hand in a stranger’s yard. 

 

“Hello?” 

 

The wind rustles the leaves, brushes Keith’s legs. He rubs his eyes furiously and stares. Is that just the moonlight or the stars? Is that just a trick of Keith’s tired mind? 

 

He is being watched, someone is here with him, he is not alone. He steels his jaw. Any second now, he expects a hand to land on his shoulder. 

“Hey, it’s creepy to just stare at people!” He shouts into the woods and takes another step back to the house. 

 

The wind rustles again and this time, it sounds much like whispers, like laughter. The unseen pair of eyes stare and stare and stare. Keith turns on his heel and hurries back to the house, slamming the door behind himself, locking it. His neck still prickles. He rubs it, breathing hard. 

 

“Keith?” 

 

Keith yelps, burning his hand on his half-lit joint. “Shit, christ, fuck!” 

 

Hunk stares bleary-eyed at him from the stairs, his pyjama pants dragging on the floor. His stubble seems more pronounced in the dark. “What are you doing up?” Hunk yawns. 

 

Keith blushes, guilty. “Sorry. I just - I can’t sleep sometimes. Then I go out for a smoke.” He realizes the joint is still slightly smoking and hurries to put it out. 

 

Hunk huffs. “There’s an ashtray in the kitchen cabinet. Above the - “ a huge yawn breaks his sentence in two. “The, you know. Stove. Can’t miss it. Romes doesn’t smoke but Matt does sometimes. It’s fine.” 

 

Keith finds his fingers trembling when he goes to stifle his stupid, stupid joint. 

 

Hunk is still waiting, still half-asleep. Before Keith can apologize for waking him, Hunk smiles. “Are you okay?” 

 

Keith draws a deep breath. “Truth to be told? I don’t quite know. It’s fine. It’s fine that I’m not fine. Sorry I woke you.” He pats Hunk’s arm. Gets a pat of his own in return. “Go to sleep, big guy.” 

 

Hunk huffs. “Yeah.” He yawns again. “If you can’t fall asleep, feel free to make a cup of tea.” 

 

Seeing Hunk, touching Hunk is grounding. Keith no longer feels the pressure, the intense feeling of being watched. He climbs back the stairs with his friend and heads for his own room, tightly pulling the curtains over the window. 

 

Despite exhaustion lingering in his bones, Keith can’t find it in himself to fall back asleep. 


	7. Shiro, here (and in a dream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUHC9tYz8ik)

The day after the shadow in the park, Shiro feels on the edge. For once, he’s late for work, he took his morning jog in a different direction than usual and is a shaky mess the entire day. He declines the invitation for a shared lunch and still thinks of the hate-filled gaze he just knows had been directed at him. 

 

Had he been sleepwalking? 

 

Shiro’s nightmares had come and gone, but never had they woken him up like this, never had they involved his apartment or this city. He stares off into space so often during the day that Coran finally, when afternoon rolls on and Shiro has broken a pair of scissors against his prosthetic, sends him home. 

 

Flustered, Shiro heads for the gym instead. 

 

Sweat sticks to his skin, glues his tank top to his muscles. His prosthetic works like the miracle it is, punching bag swinging with every measured hit. Sometimes Shiro stays to work out with others, the usual gym-goers: the few students that live in the neighbourhood, the cheery middle-aged ladies and so on. But now he keeps his earbuds on, eyes focused. 

 

He runs. He stretches. He lifts weights, carefully focuses on breathing. Adrenaline and euphoria and dopamine in his system, his earlier anxiety begins sliding away. He exercises until he can’t anymore, stretches the stiffness from his limbs and then takes a shower. 

 

The gym shower stalls are cramped for a big guy like him, but he manages. As usual, grateful for the waterproof seamless surface of his prosthetic, water sliding off the grey metal like dozens of tiny rivers. 

 

Shiro closes his eyes and - 

 

He’s in a dream, full of light and colour, he hears a song and sees a dance, a flash of a smile. Wind brushes his face, like a kiss from a lover long gone. He runs in the daydream, runs into eternity and into forever, powerful - 

 

He opens his eyes, his fingers are spread against the wall, the water long gone cold. 

 

Shiro trembles. A daydream? A memory? For four long years he’s never had a single memory return. All he has are vague things from what he assumes were his parents, a knowledge that there is a whole life he lived before he came to Appleberry. 

 

No flashes had ever come. 

 

Shiro gets out of the shower on shaky feet, towel wrapped around his waist. He brushes hair from his face, so deep in thought and an odd sense of melancholy that he barely notices he’s no longer alone in the locker room. 

 

Somebody clears his throat. Calls Shiro’s name. 

 

Shiro flinches and meets a pair of curious dark eyes. Of course - of course it’s Keith, his hair falling free over a t-shirt-covered chest, fringe brushing Keith’s cheek. Keith’s eyes are so pretty, his skin pale under the harsh fluorescent light. 

 

For a heartbeat, they stare at each other, speechless, breathless. For a heartbeat Shiro is certain he’s met before Keith, in another life, in another place. 

 

Then Keith draws breath, startled and looks away. “Hello, Shiro,” he whispers. 

 

Shiro faintly remembers he’s clutching his towel like a lifeline, most of his body on full display. Along with the wretched mess of scars that is his right shoulder. 

“I- “ Shiro swallows hard. “D-didn’t expect to see you here.” 

 

Keith frowns, placing his shoes in his locker. He hums. “Don’t seem like the type, is what you mean?” His voice cracks, husky, still pleasant. 

Shiro blushes, digs his teeth into his lip. Where to go with Keith, he doesn’t know. That maddening pull inside of his chest draws him closer. “Not what I mean, Keith.” Shiro heads for his own locker and hesitates before pulling off his towel. “It’s a nice gym,” he adds. He focuses on his boxers, pulling on his shirt, his sweatpants. 

 

“Matt directed me here,” Keith murmurs. Clothing rustles. Shiro doesn’t look. He doesn’t. 

 

A peek tells him there are quick fingers braiding long, long pretty strands. A flash of pale skin revealed, more tattoos decorating a body Shiro would love to -

 

He shakes his head. “Matt’s never been here with me,” Shiro huffs. He only turns to Keith when he’s sure it’s safe to do so. There is still no one else in the room. The lights give Keith’s hair a faint purple hue. 

 

Keith is looking at him too, head tilted. His braid ends up messy. “He hasn’t?” Keith’s body is tense. He’s pulled on a tank top and leggings, a neat pair of black sneakers. His shoulders are pulled up, just a little.

 

_ Is it me? Did I come on too strong? _ Shiro gnaws on his lip. He takes a deep breath, puts his amethyst back around his neck. He looks away from Keith, has to grit his teeth to do so. “Y-yeah no. Matt would rather chew off his own arm than visit a gym voluntarily. But it’s a good place.” Shiro’s heart has begun to race. Once more the butterflies insides are fluttering, drumming against his ribs, bouncing against his locked up heart. 

 

“Mm,” is all Keith says. “Good seeing you, Shiro.” 

 

Shiro bites his tongue and goes out of the door first, hair still dripping, shirt pulled on the wrong way around. Shiro glances behind himself and notices, a trick of light, a flicker of a shadow. 

 

The euphoria of exercise begins dripping off of him with each step he takes towards home, bypassing the park entirely. His music blares on, a feminine voice purring about friends and wolves, worlds apart. When Shiro runs, he is nothing but a body. 

 

Whoever Takashi Shirogane is, he wasn’t always this. Yet this is all he is now. He rubs his chest when he makes it home, stops by his door to draw breath. 

 

“I’m Shiro. I don’t remember where I was born. I don’t remember my mother or my father. I don’t remember where I lived.” His words are stifled by the silence of his apartment. He pulls off his shoes and heads for the kitchen, gets himself the remnants of his daily smoothie. 

 

I’m fine, everything is fine. Keith is just a person. I am just a person. 

Yet still Shiro’s throat feels clogged up. Yet still his gaze is drawn towards the park. In the daylight it holds no menace: a dog walker here, the neighbourhood widower there, leaning down to sniff the flowers. 

 

No one stares at Shiro, full of hate. He draws the curtains over the entirety of his massive window, takes a step back. 

 

He draws a deep, deep breath. Everything rolls like a hurricane inside of him: Keith, Appleberry, his own missing memories. Everything is too much. Shiro sits down by his TV, opens Netflix. He numbs his mind until all he thinks are plot twists and the dramatic conflicts of characters. Until all his own worries are shoved deep inside of his brain, only to come up later. 

 

Except - 

 

Then someone has long black hair, braided. Then someone has an intricate geometric pattern drawn on a map, reminiscent of Keith’s tattoos. Then someone’s eyes glow and look straight at the camera, straight at Shiro --

\-- 

 

C an y o u h e a r m e ? 

 

\--

 

Shiro slams awake, rolling off the couch, stumbling into a pained heap to the floor. The TV is still open, but now it’s fizzing with static. Shiro looks around wildly, shaking like a leaf, trembling, knowing that he’s being watched again, somewhere from the shadows scattered all over his home. 

 

Shiro stumbles up to his feet, to his phone, to the light switch. Had he even turned them on in the first place? They flicker on, bright, so damn bright, but not a single shadow is left. Still, the feeling doesn’t go and Shiro stumbles his way to the curtains and pulls them apart- 

 

It’s evening, the sunset colouring the park in orange and red and gentle, calming lilac. 

 

Shiro inhales. Dreams, again. He flops down on the couch with his phone. He nearly presses the wrong name, but manages to call Allura. She knows he wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important. He pulls his knees up to his jaw, makes himself as small as possible. 

 

He’s still shivering when she picks up. “Darling?”

 

“I- “ His tongue feels thick. The TV still fizzes, shizzles. He looks at the flickering snowfall on the screen. “I panicked.”

Allura hums. “Any specific reason?” She keeps her voice neutral. “You have flowers in your place, right? They should be fresh. You always tell all of us they need to be fresh.” 

 

Shiro nods numbly. “Flowers, y-yeah.” He presses the button to turn his TV off, but the static stays. Shiro’s jaw tightens. He gets up, legs now more stable after getting a hold of another voice. “I just- I thought I saw something. I met Keith today. Things.” There is a bouquet of peonies right beside the light switch, vibrant and alive alivealivealivealive- 

 

Shiro shoves them to his face and takes a deep breath. 

 

“Shiro? Are you still there?” 

 

Shiro hums. “S-sorry. Yeah. Still here.” 

 

“Did Keith say something?” 

 

The peonies have petals as soft as a feather. Shiro presses his lips to them. “No. He was alright. It’s not his fault I’m - it’s nobody’s fault.”

 

“That’s right, Shiro,” Allura says, gently. “It’s not your fault. Nothing that has happened to you is your fault.” 

 

Shiro keeps his eyes closed, his nose pressed to his flowers. “Thank you for being so patient with me. I value our friendship so much,” he whispers.

 

“I value our friendship as well, darling,” Allura says. “I can come over, if you’d like.”

 

Shiro inhales deeply, exhales deeply. I’m fine, lingers on his tongue. “Please,” he whispers, tiny, pitiful. Gods, asking for help still stings his once proud heart. 

 

“Of course, darling. I’ll bring some of Hunk’s cupcakes, yes? I’ll stay on your couch if you want.” 

 

Shiro bites back a pitiful sorry. Instead: “Sounds good.” He retreats back to the couch with his flowers, with his phone. The living room is bathed in light, the park outside silent and still. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> say hi [twitter](https://twitter.com/allodole) or [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/Revy)


	8. Keith, here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the witching hour.

Appleberry’s summer blazes on, brutal and dry. For Keith, used to the desert heat and warmer climates, it’s nothing new. He switches his tight shirts for looser clothing and braids his hair up into a bun. He gets his first clients soon: a slew of requests on his Instagram, a few arriving by phone. 

 

Usually Matt is the one handling the phone, his handsome face and more or less good humour keeping anyone’s spirits up, via phone or face to face. 

 

Keith inks a little triangle to the calf of a blushing high school girl. Keith inks a mathematical symbol to the arm of an university professor, smiling a little ruefully that she hadn’t gotten it done earlier. Keith focuses on the way the lines appear on skin, keeps his touches firm, but brief. The clients’ names and faces blur together. 

 

Inside the Castle, it is a little world of his own. The roof is painted like a starry night sky, fairy lights decorating each ornate window. Inside it is pleasantly cool. 

 

During the day, Keith can just be Keith, a guy with quick fingers and an eye for art. During the night, he slips into a dreamplace, wordless, soundless and always, without fail, meets the eyes of one Takashi Shirogane. 

 

“What are you trying to say?” Keith asks during a dream, frustration boiling, fingers twitching on his sheets. 

 

Shiro looks at him in the dream, not frightened, not doubtful like he seems in real life. Each time, the night sky is reflected in his eyes and Keith wakes up with a yearning in his heart he can’t understand or put a name to. 

  
  


Running into Shiro in the gym is a perfect, awful accident. 

 

Matt had nudged him towards the gym with a meaningful wink, letting it slip that everyone in town visits it at times and if Keith wants to, maybe he could get a card. So Keith pays for a one-time visit, just to check the place out and heads in. 

 

The locker room is empty, the shower running. Keith aims to be quick, not comfortable to be half-dressed in anyone’s company, but then - 

 

Of course it’s Shiro, perfect, bright-eyed Shiro, who speaks words Keith can’t understand in his dreams and who seems to hesitate in real life when around Keith. Of course Shiro’s muscles are perfectly defined, water dripping down from snow white strands, swept back from the noble forehead. Not for the first time, not for the second time, Keith thinks Shiro doesn’t belong here. Not in this stuffy little locker room, not to this cozy, sleepy little town. 

 

Shiro belongs on a throne. 

 

Keith swallows hard, makes a fool of himself. Shiro doesn’t seem to mind but what does Keith know- they’re strangers to each other. 

 

Keith only relaxes after Shiro is long gone, sculpted body covered by sweatpants and a shirt, eyes avoiding Keith’s. 

 

While Keith feels he’s slowly finding a rapport with the others, settling into place in the Castle, Shiro remains a question mark. 

 

Keith works out for an hour and a half, acquaintances himself with the equipment, even gets stuck in a little small talk with other citizens. But Keith’s body, used to moving, used to running, soon starts to feel choked between four walls. The gym is well cared for but old, the receptionist a middle aged man whose name Keith forgets instantly. 

 

Keith walks home afterwards, takes a different route, lets himself get lost. The burn of exercise lingers in his muscles, in his very bones. He finds himself in a park, a sandy path running through it, winding between trees like a waterless river. Sunlight trickles down, casting shapes and shades that bring a smile to Keith’s face. 

 

The need to draw makes his fingers twitch. 

 

He walks slowly, inhales the scent of the trees and the flowers, carefully planted here and there between the trees and the benches. Idly Keith wonders if Shiro was the one to plant these, if Shiro’s big hands had cradled the fragile little stems - Keith clamps those thoughts shut immediately, smile fading. 

 

It’s only by accident that he sees it, then. He happens to look down and see an odd brown spot on the ground, like - 

 

He crouches to look closer. The spot right under this tree is dead and brown, the grass broken in places,  as if it had been burned. Keith frowns and traces the edges of dead and alive grass. He recoils, his fingers shocked, a spark of purple igniting in front of his eyes. He blinks and it’s gone. Standing up, he rubs his fingers together. 

 

Curiously he pokes the dead spot of grass again but this time, there is no sting.

 

“Weird,” Keith mutters. He glances around, but the park is empty. There is a house, peeking through the trees, large windows letting Keith see a peek of the apartments inside. He huffs and begins walking back home. 

 

*

 

Keith has been the sort of a guy who goes ahead fiercely and determinedly, most of his life. A lot of his recklessness and authority problem he had attributed to spending so much time with his pa - and so much time by himself. He had only started to stop and think about his actions since the past few years, but the same determination and fierceness had remained. There isn’t much to fear in this world to him, aside from losing his parents. 

 

Keith is an unstoppable force of nature, but even forces of nature get confused, get lost. Keith doesn’t quite know who to turn to about his dreams: the same ones with Shiro in them, face blurry, lips always moving, hands always reaching. The twitching vines wrapping around him, dragging him from Keith into the dark had been a new addition - - as are the vines wrapped around Keith’s legs when he wakes this morning, sweaty and breathless.

 

For a heartbeat or two he thinks he’s still dreaming, no, but the weight, the spikes pressing into his bare legs are very real. As he tries to pull his legs free, the vines tighten, seemingly growing out of his mattress. Keith’s breath hitches in panic, his brow furrows in determination. He sits up and begins pulling his legs free, scratching his hands and his legs to the little thorns in the vines, scrambling out of his bed. 

 

He draws a deep, panicked breath and closes his eyes for a second, rubbing away the black spots. When he opens them, the vines retreat, hissing and slithering, back into his, no, through the floor - Keith gasps, stumbles forward but there is nothing, only droplets of blood, a few twisted, curled, dead leaves. 

 

He frowns, pulls off his blankets, his sheets, but there isn’t even a single hole left behind. 

“Fuck.” His legs throb. He sucks a finger into his mouth, laps up the little droplets of blood. 

 

Only then Keith notices the time. 3:00am. Once again. 

“Witching hour,” he murmurs. He had a brief interest in the occult in his most rebellious teenage years, still carries a pack of tarot cards, still keeps watch of the phases of the moon. It is not the first time he’s woken up at three in the morning in Appleberry. 

 

Cursing softly under his breath, he tugs on a jacket and shoes, grabs a pack of menthol cigarettes. He doesn’t smoke those anymore, not usually. Yet sometimes they offer a brief puff of calm. Keith knows his bad habits and his good ones, knows himself enough to see what is good and what is bad for his body.

 

Not so much what is good for his mind. 

 

He heads out, sneaks out through the backyard without waking up Hunk and Romelle. A moment’s hesitation later, Keith decides to stay away from the darkened forest spreading behind the yards. His neck prickles uncomfortably at the thought of going there, so Keith heads to the main street. 

 

At this hour, the city is dead. Keith lights a cigarette, zips up his jacket and begins to walk. His neck still prickles, he keeps glancing behind himself but there is no one there. He takes a drag of his cigarette and makes a face at the taste of smoke, but it remains between his slender fingers. Without a proper destination, he wanders, taking in the dim streetlights, the silent, dark houses. Above him, the moon glows, half-full. 

 

Keith’s heart beats steady and strong. The air is chilly enough to make him shiver. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and wanders on. 

 

He steps under the trees of a familiar park, now transformed into a darker place, out of reach of the street lights. Wind rustles the leaves, caresses Keith’s cheeks. 

 

Then it strikes.

 

A pressure, like a giant hand pressing Keith down, sending him on his knees, no, on all fours. He inhales shakily. There is someone here, no, many, all watching him, all advancing on him and he can’t walk, he can’t do anything except fight against the pressure. Keith groans, fingers digging into the dirt. His cigarette hisses as it is stifled, barely burned. The pressure wraps around his throat and chokes until he’s whimpering, wheezing, black spots dancing in his eyes. He’s slammed to the ground, face shoved into the dirt and now he hears it: laughter. 

 

“̳̞W̧̥̼̼̭̥h͇̬̖̟̻̯e̳̘̪̮r̬e̳̲̩ͅ i̼̟̼s̢̳̹͚͙͓ ̺͕̤̦̹͇h̦̯͓̼e̫?̷͖͕̣̭ͅͅ” Asks the voice, right next to his ear.̢ “Y̕oư ̴have̵ se҉ęn hi̴m. ̶That pąt̕hetic͢ ̢e̶xi̧l̵e̢d ͏p̨rinc̡e.̨ ͘We ͏ca̷n̵ sm͟eļl h̕i҉m on ͢you͏. ”҉

 

Keith wheezes, biting back a sob. He can’t breathe, he can’t fucking breathe - his eyes are squeezed closed, mind swirling in confusion.

 

“W-who, who are you - “ He can’t speak, because someone is laughing in his ear, it’s like Shiro’s laughter, but distorted, like static. 

 

“̣͕W̭̩͓̖̠̻h̼̺͚̠e̠r̩̫e͎̩̤͓̞ ̭̘̜͖̦i̜̦̪̞͙͕s̬̻̦̱̬̻͖ ͙͕̼͍̲͇͓t̩̟h͚̳e̱͓͕͕ ͍̬͍p̩r̭̗̰̤̯i͇̠͖̲̰n̩̙̝c̜͓̜e?̗͖̖”͚̪̭͓̺̮͙ Is growled against his skin, claws are catching on his clothes, on his face and then - 

 

A bang, a thud, a flash of such intense light that even eyes squeezed closed, Keith screams. 

  
  


He comes to, a few seconds, a minute later, to the sound of someone calling his name. No one other than his parents have said  _ Keith _ with such gentleness, such worry. There are hands on his face, brushing dirt and little rocks, flecks of blood. 

 

“Keith?” 

 

He’s moved, tucked against something firm and warm. Keith groans, his head throbbing, sweat gathering on his skin despite the cool night. “Fuck,” he grumbles, patting up with his shaking hands. Why is his face wet? 

 

“I’ve got you, Keith. I’ve got you,” murmurs the voice, the hands warm and big on him. 

 

Faintly Keith realizes he’s lifted and he’s carried, away from the coolness of the night, kept against a firm body. Familiar, despite Keith being sure that nobody but his father has ever carried him this way. 

 

“Who?” 

 

A cough. Clinging of keys. Click of a door. “I-it’s me. It’s Shiro.” Shiro keeps Keith tight against himself.

 

Keith’s eyes fall closed. “Shiro,” he murmurs. His head swims. He doesn’t understand, his mouth is full of ash, his ears full of laughter, slowly fading. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if the distorted text is hard to read: 
> 
> "Where is he?"  
> "You have seen him. That pathetic exiled prince. We can smell him on you."
> 
> "Where's the prince?"
> 
> [generator](http://www.eeemo.net/)


	9. Shiro, here

Keeping a straight face through the long, hot summer days is difficult. Everything inside of Shiro has turned to mush, the curtains constantly pulled over his windows, his sleep too often cut short. He skips on a movie night and pizza night, insists that he’s fine despite the fact that everyone can see the exhaustion that has began to creep into his eyes. Only to Allura Shiro entrusts the knowledge that he fears something is up worse with him, that he can’t sleep. Not for the first time she hints about going out of town to meet with a psychiatrist Allura knows - but Shiro declines.

 

No therapy or medicine had helped with his anxiety or with his dreams. These, hallucinations or whatever he could call them, what else are they but the figments of his overactive imagination?

 

Or maybe they are memories, those missing memories still truly locked away somewhere deep within his mind. 

 

He sees a flash of Keith again, right with the delivery of that week. Shiro stares and Keith stares back, eyes wide, body coiled like a fox ready to run with the sound of a gun. Allura, manning the reception desk again, lifts an eyebrow. 

 

She clears her throat and the moment breaks, Keith hurries to the sound of a tattoo gun, his braid whisking after him. Shiro blushes and gives the sunflowers to Allura. Allura smiles. 

 

“Cute,” she says. 

 

She only sees her friend finding her new friend attractive, handsome. She doesn’t see the red string reaching from Shiro’s finger to Keith’s finger, she doesn’t see or feel the pull Shiro feels towards Keith, at all hours of the day.  It’s much like Shiro is enchanted, yet simultaneously he’s certain if he gets closer, something will change irrevocably and Shiro can’t go back to these calm Appleberry days, ever again. 

 

“He is,” Shiro murmurs, cheeks red. “Leave it, Allura.” He departs before she can get another word in. For what it’s worth, Allura doesn’t tease him and doesn’t tell the others. Matt makes jokes, of course, but they’re whispered into Shiro’s ear, his wiggly eyebrows only meant for Shiro to see. 

 

The budding little crush stays a secret. 

 

And Shiro stays anxious, still lost. 

 

Staying away from that particular park isn’t a hard choice: it’s, after all, just one place. The other park of Appleberry is smaller and less familiar to Shiro, but it serves as a good place for a good jog. Shiro still cultivates his skill with the flowers, still presses his lips, feather-light, on the soft petals. Under his eye the flowers go bigger and stronger than they usually would: the colours are brighter, more vibrant. To the flowers Shiro gives his thoughts, his sorrow, his anxiety. Only the flowers know what he feels. 

 

He wakes up every night now, at three am, to the feeling that he’s surrounded, he’s being watched. Every single goddamn night, he has to keep his lights on, the TV on. He brings more flowers into his apartment, never takes his amethyst off anymore. 

 

It takes him a moment to realize there are more flowers than he brought: a vine, lush and green, surrounding his windows, growing seemingly out of nothing. They bloom with bright, lilac flowers that smell like something comforting and long gone. 

 

Shiro has no heart to tear them off, instead he thanks them. Wherever they had come from, they are here to protect him. 

 

He hasn’t brought anyone, not even Allura inside the apartment, until the night when Shiro hears noise from the park. Shiro has woken up just a minute or two earlier himself, stumbling out of his sweat-soaked sheets, put his prosthetic on and headed to his living room window. The lilac flowers flutter, rustle, they seem to whisper for him to go back to bed, leave this be. 

 

Yet what Shiro hears is definitely the sound of a fight. Thuds and grunts and hisses and above all, shrill, awful laughter, like a deranged child. Shiro’s heart races, his hands shake furiously as he struggles to peek through his curtains. 

 

At first, there is only the park, then the trees themselves seem to be vibrating and there - moving shadows, too many to count, eyes unseen focused on - 

 

Shiro gasps, presses his nose to the glass. There is someone down, struggling to get up, dressed - oh no. Oh no no no no no. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, breathless. Because no one else has such beautiful, long hair, now grinded to the ground by these shaking, shadowy beings, like humans draped in the night sky. Shiro shakes. He hits the window with his fist and shouts Keith’s name. 

 

Instantly the pressure is on Shiro and he whines, nearly buckling. The shadows are staring at him now, maws opening, teeth clashing, ready to eat him, to devour him. Shiro struggles to keep his eyes open. 

“No,” he grunts, dragging himself back up, away from the window. The lilac flowers tremble, one flutters down to Shiro’s hand. He inhales deep and right at that moment Keith, still on the ground, seems to convulse and then, then - 

 

Shiro recoils, hand slammed on his eyes when an intense light strikes, spreading over the entire city, blinding Shiro for a moment. He inhales shakily and fights against the blinding spots in his eyes, looks at the park again: 

 

Keith has slumped down, unmoving. The shadows are still around him.

 

Without a further thought, still rubbing his aching eyes, biting back a yawn, Shiro heads out. He’s in his boxers and barefooted, but Keith doesn’t move, Keith lays absolutely still, curled on the dirt path like a broken ragdoll. 

 

Shiro’s heart races harder as he hurries out of his building, around it to the park. 

“Keith!” How sweet Keith’s name tastes, how Shiro’s heart sings as he says it. He calls again, again, finds Keith shivering, a pack of cigarettes crushed to the ground next to him. His hair is free, now dirty, sticks and little rocks, like grinded down with rough hands. 

 

In a circle around Keith, are dead leaves. 

 

For a single moment Shiro stops, a terror he can’t understand catching his throat in a chokehold. Then Keith groans, clearly in pain and Shiro rushes to his side, gathering him to his arms. 

“Oh, Keith,” Shiro whispers, presses his palm to a wounded cheek. “Keith, hey, wake up.” 

 

Keith lets out a pained breath, his head rolling over Shiro’s arm. Shiro’s jaw tightens. What is going on in this city? Why is it just Shiro and Keith? There are clear handprints around Keith’s pale, beautiful neck, turned a painful purple. There are little rocks, tiny wounds scratched onto those sharp cheekbones and to that sharp chin. 

 

Keith’s lips are bitten raw and red, parted to let out a gasp. 

 

“Keith, hey, Keith,” Shiro tries again, gently begins to clean the biggest mess out of this sweet boy. Whatever it is that is brewing between them, Shiro doesn’t know. But it is there and he can’t deny it. Calling Keith’s name again, this time Keith groans, eyes open a crack. Shiro’s fingers are stained with blood now, turned dirty but he holds Keith with as much gentleness as he manages, like Keith was one of his most beloved flowers. Like this, with a purpose, Shiro can shove away his own worries and focus on the person in his arms, who he’s so fiercely attracted to. 

 

Shiro blushes when Keith murmurs his name and curls up in his arms, like looking for warmth. 

 

Shiro hopes he had worn a shirt now. He sighs and tugs Keith better into his arms before carrying him inside of his apartment, murmuring that Keith is fine, that it’s Shiro, Shiro is taking care of him and it will be fine. Keith seems to fall back unconscious and for a moment Shiro is afraid as he lays Keith on his couch, but then Keith whimpers and opens his eyes again. 

 

“Shiro?” 

 

Shiro kneels next to him, dares to brush a few black hairs from Keith’s eyes. 

 

Keith looks feverish, exhausted. There are little cuts on his face. Keith licks his lips, dazed. “What?” Keith frowns, reaches and helplessly, Shiro grabs his hand. He tries not to focus on how big his hands are compared to Keith’s. 

 

“I’m here, Keith. You’re in my apartment. I saw you at the park. You collapsed.” Shiro’s jaw tightens. “There… there were people. Near you.” 

 

Keith stares at him, breathing hard, uncomprehending. “People?” Keith swallows, licks a droplet of blood from his lips. “They… spoke to me.” He keeps staring at Shiro. “It didn’t make any sense. Shiro, I- am I seeing things?” 

 

“No?” Shiro squeezes his hand gently and lowers it to Keith’s chest, lets it lay there. “I don’t know what happened, but you, um, clearly you were attacked.” Goddammit. He wants to protect this man. It’s like a fire has been lit inside of him. Shiro’s very insides seem to be twisting in on themselves, the butterflies released, his mouth dry. He places his hand on Keith’s head again, brushes hair from his forehead. 

 

Keith draws in a shaky breath and tries to sit up. Shiro fusses over him, helps him, pulls his hands back then like burned. 

 

Keith stares at him. “Why aren’t you more surprised? Shocked?” Keith rubs his throat, his voice rough. 

 

Shiro smiles and hangs his head. “The thing is, weird shit has happened to me. For some days now.” He yawns, still crouching next to Keith, carefully patting Keith’s knee. 

 

Keith stares at his hand. “Things? Like… “ Keith gnaws his lip. “Like dreams?” 

 

Shiro withdraws his hand again and feels the niggling return of embarrassment at his own shirtlessness. “Ah, in fact, yes. Odd dreams.” Shiro glances at the window and heads there to pull the curtains over it once more. The living room light is too bright, but it eases the awful lingering feelings. 

 

“I have dreams,” Keith mutters when Shiro turns back. “Mostly... “ Keith’s head hangs. He pulls his hair over his shoulder and begins untangling the knots. If Shiro’s tired eyes aren’t lying, there are pink spots on Keith’s cheeks. “About you.” 

 

Shiro blinks. Warmth flushes through him. “Me?” He takes a careful step closer. His heart races. He begins brushing his amethyst pendant. 

 

Keith glances at him, challenging. “You were talking but I couldn’t understand you. And the other night, I also woke up around this time and went out for a smoke. There was someone watching me in the woods.”

 

Warmth floods out of Shiro, the same way it came. He remembers he still only has his boxers on and grabs a quilt, wrapping it around himself. “The same happened to me too. I- I mean, not the dream. But someone was watching me from that park the other night.” 

 

Now their gazes meet again and linger.

 

“Coincidence?” Keith’s jaw is tight. 

 

“I don’t know, Keith,” Shiro whispers. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t like me. Or you, for that matter. May I … or if you want - I - you have blood on your face.” He aches to touch Keith again, but Keith’s shoulders are hunched protectively, his lips gnawing his lip bloody. 

 

Keith looks at him then, eyes big and beautiful. 

 

“Stay the night.” Shiro flushes. He bites his tongue, but the words are out, spread out into the air between them. 

 

Keith’s lips part, then close. He nods. “Where’s your bathroom?” 

 

Shiro tugs the quilt tighter around himself, cursing his own broadness because the quilt just isn’t wide enough. “Ah, right over there. Feel free to use whatever you want. I-I can take the couch.” 

 

Keith gets up and while he’s tall, slender like a panther, the top of his head is still just high enough to brush Shiro’s nose. They’re perfect heights for hugs. Shiro still keeps his hands to himself. 

 

“Just go back to sleep, Shiro,” Keith murmurs and the little whisper of a smile is the most beautiful thing Shiro has ever seen. 


	10. Keith, (t)here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith's side of the attack.
> 
> A friend shows up in a dream.

The blue paint on the bathroom door is chipped and peeling off. Even here, a flower is hanging from the rusty little nail on the door: a blushing pink bud that Keith doesn’t know the name of. He stares at it, brushes a finger over the tiny, see-through glass vase. It’s not difficult to imagine Shiro’s big, yet graceful hands making this little glass vase, carefully growing this little plant and putting it here, to bring a flash of colour to the little bathroom.

 

Keith’s chest clenches, tight, painful. He inhales, lets his head droop. 

 

In here, Shiro is everywhere. In here, the park and the faceless attackers are distant history. Keith lifts his head and looks at his wretched reflection: places curious fingers to the multiple little cuts on his cheeks, the mess that is his hair, a leaf stuck on his temple. 

 

_ I look like shit.  _

 

He takes a deep, deep breath. The same earthy, slightly sweet scent that lingered in the living room is here too, filling Keith’s nostrils until it is all he knows. Days have blurred together in here, in this strange city where the moon is too bright and Keith has stayed, stayed for so long that his heart is now aching for a man like Shiro. 

 

The tedious task of cleaning his face is at least something he can focus on: he digs through Shiro’s cupboards for antiseptic, stills for a moment when he finds neatly organized medicine bottles. It’s none of his business, but he still looks, traces Shiro’s name and the words  _ one (1) every morning for panic attacks  _ and pulls away. It’s none of his damn business. What’s in Shiro’s heart and brain doesn’t belong to him. 

 

Keith cleans himself up, drags his fingers through the mess that is his hair, finding it hopelessly knotted in places. With a sigh Keith peels off his jacket, lets it drop. When he makes to kneel to get his socks off, sudden dizziness makes him waver, nearly buckle down to the floor.

A knock on the door. Shiro’s worried voice. Of course he wouldn’t go to sleep, of course he waits until Keith is alright.

 

Keith squeezes his eyes closed and inhales, bats away the sudden influx of tears. Keeping his distance from Shiro doesn’t seem to work, not at all. Now that he’s surrounded by the man’s scent and presence, Keith feels ready to fall over. 

 

Just come in, he wants to say. Yet, his tongue is at war with his brain, words turned into ash behind his teeth. Keith sighs. 

“I’ll take a shower,” he whispers. “Just go to sleep, Shiro.” 

 

“I- I’ll wait,” Shiro murmurs. “You hit your head, Keith.”

 

That’s right. The headache. The bump forming on his forehead. Keith sighs and rubs his eyes, exhaustion catching up to him until stars are dancing in the dark beneath his eyelids. “Fine.” He picks up his dirtied jacket and opens the door, meets Shiro’s furrowed brows and bedhair. As usual, Keith’s heart picks up the pace at the sight of Shiro.

 

“Keith,” Shiro says, helpless. “You look ready to fall over.” After a moment of visible hesitation - still frowning, eyes downcast, pink cheeks - Shiro tosses off the quilt still hanging over his shoulders and reaches for Keith, takes his hand. 

 

“I’ll lend you some clothes, okay?” Shiro holds Keith’s hand carefully. Under those pleading eyes that Keith has to look up at, Keith can’t find it in himself to say no. Shiro’s hands are warm - the prosthetic might be running on machinery Keith doesn’t understand, it’s still as warm as Shiro’s other hand. 

 

Keith doesn’t answer to Shiro’s hesitant smile, instead lets his gaze fall. Shiro’s floor is dark wood, little, intricate leaves carved into it. Keith begins stripping, tugging off each item like they were no longer his own, sullied by the touch of those faceless, laughing beings.

 

Oh, how they had laughed, asked after their lost prince. Keith knows of no princes, nothing of anything supernatural. All he knows is what he sees and feels. 

 

He leaves himself in his boxers and his shirt, clutching the hem in his hands, only now steadier. 

 

Shiro returns, still shirtless, still like a marble statue come to life. His cheeks are flushed, but he is smiling. There is a hint of a dimple on his right cheek. 

 

Keith looks away from him and accepts the bundle of clothes. 

 

“They’re gonna be big for you,” Shiro murmurs. “You’re, you’re smaller than me.” 

 

Keith lets his gaze sweep over Shiro’s broad, bare chest. Keith’s fingers twitch. Oh, how he would love to get his ink on all of that bare skin. “It’s fine,” Keith murmurs. He licks his lips. “Hey. Ever thought of getting a tattoo?” Keith’s skin feels hot. He strips his shirt, changes it to one of Shiro’s: of course, absurdly huge, falling off his shoulder to reveal a collarbone, covered in ink. 

 

Shiro makes a choked little noise. His eyes have widened, his lips parted. Only when Keith tilts his head and stares back, Shiro blinks. 

 

“Uh - huh? Oh. Yeah. I have, in fact,” Shiro mutters and looks away. He’s rubbing the back of his neck. 

 

Keith’s heart skips another beat. He hums and pulls on a pair of pajama pants, decorated with little hammer-wielding Thors. Keith bites his lip, but the smile bursts ahead anyway. He tugs on the strings at the waist harder to keep the pants on himself. “Thor?” 

 

Shiro blushes, again. “Just go to sleep, Keith.” 

 

Keith gets a sweet little thrill from the way Shiro says his name. He makes to sit down on the couch, but Shiro shakes his head, gesturing wordlessly for a second before he clears his throat. 

“J-just take my bed. I’ll - I’ll take the couch. Please?” 

 

Now Keith feels his face warming. “Okay.” His head is throbbing harder and the lights are too strong. He makes to step ahead, but Shiro brushes his shoulder. 

 

“Are you sure you don’t want bandages? That cut on your cheek looks a little,” Shiro murmurs, his palm big enough to cover Keith’s entire shoulder. 

 

Keith doesn’t understand, can’t bring himself to get just when he became this hypersensitive when it comes to Shiro. Mysterious, endearing Shiro. He’s been through a lot, their friends had told Keith and left it at that. 

 

Keith sighs. “It’s fine, Shiro.” He likes to say it: Shiro, simply, Shiro, a strong name for a strong man. Keith lets his hair fall and tickle his cheeks. He keeps his head lowered as he makes his way to the bedroom, a sacred little sanctuary. It’s bathed in darkness, now blessed and wanted. 

 

Keith closes the door firmly and lets his shoulders drop. Just one look and he is gone. Just one look and his heart is at ease. What is this? What kind of an enchantment is in the way Shiro smiles? 

 

With a groan, Keith crawls carefully to the bed and burrows himself under the blanket, lays his head on one of the five, soft pillows spread out on the sheets. He closes his eyes. He takes a deep, deep breath. Let the dreams come then. 

 

And they do: all the swirling colours, all different tones of purple, a noise like - it is laughter again, a mad sort of cackling that freezes the very blood in Keith’s veins. He knows he’s in a dream, because he’s standing in a forest, bare footed. Somewhere, the madwoman cackles. In front of Keith, the shadows move. 

 

He inhales sharply and calls out for Shiro, because for once, it’s not Shiro in here, but this strange forest with its massive trees that seem to reach the heavens themselves. The air is still, expectant. 

 

Keith shivers and looks down. Bare feet pressing into the moss. Odd loose trousers, like cotton. Keith blinks. His nails have grown into claws, a tail slipping between his legs - he recoils and his feet are just feet, his toenails just toenails. 

 

Keith begins to walk, listens to the cackles of the unseen stranger, listens as they turn into enraged screeches. Keith opens his mouth to shout, but - 

 

A hand clamps on his mouth, an arm around his waist and pulls him behind a tree. Keith struggles instantly, grumbles against the heavy palm with its leather glove, but he’s hissed silently. 

“I am a friend!” It’s a voice Keith doesn’t recognize. “I entered your dreamscape. Believe me, it took me bloody forever - please, stay still! She is looking for you. They are all looking for you. Well, not you but the one with you.” The voice isn’t the voice of a villain, the slight accent bringing mind a small island nation. “We… I was looking for you,” the voice whispers and lets Keith go.

 

Keith turns and - looks up. And up. The man is tall, taller than Shiro perhaps, and broad. Yet he is slender like Keith, like a man made of stars and wind rather than flesh and blood. The hair is snow white and falls all the way to the man’s waist, an intricately decorated braid falling over one temple. 

 

The man also has lilac skin. 

 

Keith stares. “What - “ 

 

The man grits his teeth, glancing around them. “Dreamscape, my friend. Believe me, it was not easy.” 

 

“Uh.” 

 

The man swipes his braid behind his ear - his very pointy, very lilac ear - and huffs. “You don’t remember me, do you?” He crosses his arms. “Oh well, it does not matter. What matters is that - “ he suddenly pulls them back behind a tree, pushes Keith against his armour, because of course he is wearing armour, engraved with vines and spikes and glowing gently. 

 

Keith grabs the thick arm holding him and bites back a furious snap-back when he hears the same: the cackles have quieted down. There is something approaching, rustling through leaves, pushing aside branches. 

 

L͈̰̝i̯͇̹͔t̲̻t̺̪̼l͈͉̭e͖̣͇̪̝͖ ̫̻͎̜p̙̻̖͖r͇i̟͕n͉̬̬̹ͅc̗̤̫e̲̖,̗ ̬̺̗̬̩l̫i̮̗t̪̯͖t̫̝͕͕̻l̩e͚̳ ̜͈̹͎̼p͓͍͎ṛ̮i̯̰͍͓ͅn͈̦c͔̖e͍̮̲̭͇,͍͎͕̮̺̻ ̼̭̙I̻͓̬͕ ͕͈̫̹͕c̩̥̺̲an͕̟͔̭̮ͅͅ ̝̺͇̘̞s̮̪m̹̺̱̗̟̗͖e͈̞̦͉̪͙͇ll̪͖͕̯ ͓yo̝͎̪̩͎ụ̩̞ͅ~͍͍̠̙̝”̰͙̮͙͖̫̥ ̦̤

͈̤̜̣

 

Keith freezes. The man pressing him down is tense as a bow-string, breathing slowly, but roughly. Keith’s heart beats. This dream is way too real, way too strange. 

 

“̪͓̦̪̜̞̺L̥͇̤i͈͇͙͓̭tt͙̯l̯͚̩̣͓e ̪͚̟̦̭p̮̤͕̮̞r͙i̥͙̗̗̥͕̬n̠͔c͚̗e̦,̮̪̻̻ l̻i̪̰t͙̲͎̩t̳͎ͅl̰̫̦͈e̺̬̦͖̞̫͉ ̭̠̺̤p͈̰r̭͙͈͈i̮͚̳͚̝̗n̖͉̖̦̼c̗̞͚̬e̼̩̣̗̙̫,̙͖̳̙̜ ̟̥͖͇̙̗c̫͔̩̗͚o̦̗̙͔̣m̲͙͕̠̯̳e͈̤̱̱̜ ͅo͚͖̼̖̭ut͎̞͉͉ͅ ̭̩̩̞t̙̥o͕ ͕̪͍̲̬p͈la̳͔̲y̰̭̺̗̮̩~͕ ͖̤̟͎̟l̩̹͓̟̞͍̻i͖tt̬̞̼̠͚͇͓l̖̩͉̘̠e͓̼̭̭̗ ̼͍pr̩̗i͔̹͖͓͈̦n̠ͅc̟̹̞̤̟e͔̯͙̬̤ͅ,̦͓̱̦͇̟ͅ ̲̮̗̦l̼̯͖̟i̯͓͕̼ṱ͔̺t̘͍̙͚̼͇͔l̹̫̲̙ͅe ̠̞̤̪̹͓̹p̮͙̙͚̳̻ͅr͙̞̪i͔̯̹͈n͈͚̮c̟̫e̤̪,̮͖̳͔ ̺̫w͇͍̹͎̤̘h̹͇͈̭̝͔a̝͙͈̰t̩ ̙̼̳̣̯͕d͚̥̖̯̠͓o̖͚̠͔͖ ͉̼̹͕̝͍̬y͔͇̬̙o͙u͖̭ s͔͇̼͉̫̲ͅạ̤̬̮͈̫̱ỵ̟~̠̥̣̲̪?̺͈”͍ ̖̪̱

  
  


The realization that Keith knows this voice comes slowly. He tugs, but the stranger’s grip is iron-tight. 

 

“̰̙͘L̨͔̗̝͈̘͉͔̞i̹͟t̥̗̦̘̦̗t̷͎̯̱͢͡l̸͈̝̭ḙ͔̝̳̥ ̭̗̜̻̩̦͇͘p̫̪̭̦̭͔͕͘r̼͡į͎̥͓̤͉̗̲̘̮͢͝n̡̪̫̰̪̕c̡͉͉͇̤͕̻̝ḙ͎͎̲͕̪͢~̨̘̪̘̙”̼̭̱ ̘̦̣̠͕̭̠̠

  
  


It’s Shiro’s voice, as impossible as it is, Shiro’s voice distorted and strange, the tone unlike the gentleness he has in the waking world. But it’s Shiro. Keith struggles, but he’s gripped tighter, harder. 

  
  


He blinks, he blinks and - 

 

He wakes in Shiro’s bed, tangled in Shiro’s sheets, legs trapped in blankets and pyjama pants, fallen down to his knees. Keith wheezes, blown apart by panic and struggles to free himself, pushing and shoving the sheets and pants aside. He stands up, still shaking. Hands all over himself, he makes his way out of the room, tiptoes to find that his battle with the blankets didn’t wake Shiro. 

 

Keith swallows hard and looks for his phone, finds it half-dead over a neatly folded pile of clothes. Next to the couch where Shiro sleeps, crumpled. He’s snoring softly, quilt kicked to the floor.

 

Keith picks up his clothes and sighs. There is something wicked in the air in Appleberry and it has everything to do with Shiro and Keith, it seems. Is it safe to be here? Should Keith leave again? Keith’s chest feels tight as he pulls the quilt back on Shiro, covers up the shameless amount of beautiful, relaxed muscle. 

 

Keith brushes few wayward white strands off Shiro’s forehead. 

“I’m sorry,” Keith murmurs and leaves, as quietly as he can. 


	11. Shiro, here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro is a disaster with a crush. 
> 
> Too bad his crush on Keith will be the least of his problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit is about to go DOWN i'm so sorry Shiro

The fact that Shiro wakes up alone in his apartment shouldn’t feel like a sting. Keith isn’t his. Keith is just a guy surrounded by something strange, much like Shiro himself, just a guy Shiro is unbearably attracted to. 

 

It still stings.

 

He goes on with his day, exhausted to his very bones. He only notices how tired Coran looks after they sit down for lunch in the backroom of Coran’s Flowers.

 

Shiro lowers his teacup. “Are you alright? You look really tired.” The radio is on. In the backroom, extra pots litter various shelves. In here, the scent of flowers isn’t so overpowering. 

 

Coran huffs, twirls his moustache. Even the usually magnificent moustache seems to droop. There are bags under his eyes that aren’t usually there. “Nothing you need to worry about, my boy!” Coran shoves more pastries towards him. “Eat up, eat up, I made way too much of these and you are a growing boy!”

 

Shiro snorts. “I doubt that. Maybe horizontally.” He waves at his stomach and hips, not as firm as they once were. 

 

The paleness of Coran’s usually cheery face bothers Shiro, but he knows when probing questions aren’t wanted. So Shiro smiles instead and eats more. 

 

*

 

For the rest of the day, Shiro hears nothing from Keith. 

  
  


Or the next day. 

  
  


Or the next.

  
  


Only after a weekend spent with movies and eating more of Coran’s fancy cooking and hearing university gossip from Pidge and Lance, only after Monday comes with a full force of a heatwave. Only then Keith rushes back into Shiro’s life. 

 

Shiro has an armful of peonies, the burning red of a fire as he steps into the tattoo shop. Only he doesn’t meet Matt or Allura, but Keith. 

 

“O-oh, Keith!”

 

Keith looks up and freezes. A soft pink blooms on his pale cheeks. His hair is its usual braid again, tossed around his neck like a thin, shiny scarf. “Good morning, Shiro.” Keith bites his lip. He’s wearing a loose shirt today, falling off his shoulder. With a start Shiro realizes it’s his - the shirt he gave to Keith during that chaotic, strange night. 

 

Shiro blushes.

 

Keith blushes. Keith also frowns, which Shiro likes less. “I - I intended to come see you again,” Keith murmurs. “And give this back. Sorry.” He meets Shiro’s eyes and it’s Shiro who wants to look away. 

 

Shiro offers him a smile. From the looks of it, the little cuts on Keith’s face have healed up nicely. “Ah, what the hell, buddy. Keep it. It’s just a shirt.” The faded NASA logo on the red background never suited Shiro particularly well anyway. Shiro comes to the counter and lays down the flowers. “How… how are you?” Shiro brushes his hair, tries to ease it into somewhat less of a mess. He doesn’t quite remember it, but sometimes he feels like he used to have longer hair. Maybe at the length Keith’s hair is. 

 

Keith chews on his lip. His eyelashes are so long. 

 

“You’re so pretty,” Shiro blurts out. “I- I mean! Pretty! Flowers!” He looks away. “No, but really. How have you been?” 

 

Keith shifts. “I’ve been fine.” He inhales shakily. “I had a dream.” 

 

Shiro stares at Keith’s hands. “What sort of a dream?” 

 

Keith’s hands are pretty. His nails are painted now, something shimmery. Probably by Allura. “You weren’t in it. But I - I’ve had lucid dreams for years, but this was more like. Ah. It’s a mess. I met a person in it. He told me he was looking for a prince. And that he knew me.”

 

Their gazes meet, unable to look away for long. “I don’t know what to think,” Keith says and smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

 

Sadly, Shiro realizes, he hasn’t seen Keith smiling in a way that does. “That makes two of us, buddy. You look tired.” 

 

Keith taps something on the cash register, on the laptop next to it. He huffs. “So do you.” 

“I don’t know why I can’t sleep,” Shiro murmurs. The red peonies under his arm whisper calm to his ears. To everyone else but Shiro they’re just flowers. To Shiro, they’re little hearts, shaped like love. “Flowers used to make me feel calm but even they don’t help. Or my amethyst.” 

 

Keith hums. “I want to tattoo you,” he says. “You have thought of something, haven’t you?” 

 

Shiro stares at him, then nods. “W-well. Yeah. Something simple would be nice. I don’t know if I can handle pain, to be honest - “ what he knows of pain is a faded memory, he’s certain there was pain when he lost his arm and got his new one, but now he can’t handle a papercut, “- but I find tattoos rather. Uh.” He stares at Keith’s tattoos, the patterns on his arms, the ones peeking over his shoulder. 

 

Keith hums encouragingly. 

 

Shiro clears his throat, shifts his feet. “Lovely. Lovely to look at. Oh, it’s rather hot in here, I mean, it’s pretty cool in this shop, you guys have great air conditioning, but it’s hot outside - “ he trails off when he notices the corner of Keith’s mouth twitching.

 

“I’ll tattoo you,” Keith says. “Whenever you want.” He’s smiling at the laptop, but Shiro knows that smile is meant for him.

 

Warmth, bright like the sun itself, blooms inside Shiro’s chest. He can’t help but grin. “I’d like that. “ It would be a break from all the strangeness for both of them, a much needed one. A chance for Shiro to be brave and get closer to Keith. Unless Shiro is reading this wrong and they are not flirting and Keith isn’t interested. 

 

But there is still this whole case of strangeness surrounding them both. 

 

Shiro hesitates. “Draw me something,” he blurts out. He points at the new additions to the walls. “Those are yours, right?” 

 

Keith glances at the wall too and nods. 

 

“Could you, um.” Shiro brushes the peonies he’s brought. “A peony? Just one. I think I’d like that.” Shiro knows to listen to his gut by now and right now, his gut is telling him to accept the offer and that it has to be a peony, a small, red peony. Meaning love, compassion, passion. 

 

Keith looks at him, just looks at him for a heartbeat or two. “I’ll draw anything you want, Shiro,” he says, voice soft. 

 

With that promise, Shiro leaves. 

  
  


Three days pass, most nights still spent sleepless and dreamless for Shiro. He changes thicker curtains for his living room window and never opens them again, no matter what he hears. The vines grow further, thicker on his walls. Shiro tries not to rip them off anymore. In a way, he feels like they’re protecting him. From what, Shiro can’t tell. 

  
  


A day passes. The morning is a usual one, busy in the flower shop. Shiro handles it, chugs coffee whenever he can and hides the jitters by smiling harder, by smiling wider. Coran isn’t present, doing paperwork back home, swamped with reservations for an upcoming summer wedding. There are girlfriends buying flowers for their girlfriends, a meek husband buying roses for his wife, a group of giggling school girls buying tulips. 

 

By the time lunch rolls by, Shiro is eager for a shower and a nap. As he puts the plaque on the door - be right back, having lunch! - and heads for the backroom, he trips. He bangs his knee on a doorway and curses, looks down. 

 

A vine has slithered seemingly from out of the wall and lifted itself, like a snake coiled, ready to attack. 

 

Shiro freezes. All the strangeness had seemed to have taken a break for the past few days, nothing as major as finding Keith in the park. 

 

Shiro’s jaw tightens as he crouches to take a look. The vine lets out a hiss as it slithers, begins to thicken, more begin to push out of the wall. The building itself groans. Shiro’s heart skips a beat. He pats his pockets for his phone and heads out of the backdoor, looking around, realizing what the feeling right now is: 

 

He’s being watched. Again. He rubs his neck and heads out, into the scorching sun, only partly cooled by the massive oak right in the shop’s backyard, shadowing the loading bridge and their van. 

 

Shiro looks back, the door open and - there is a person there, taller than him, thinner than him. The eyes glow a sickly yellow. 

 

“Uh, hey, I don’t think - “ is all he manages before the person runs, straight for him. Shiro wheezes, the phone he’s clutching thudding to the ground. The person slashes, with something sharp and potentially deadly and somehow, Shiro dodges. 

“H-hey! Hey! Who are you!” He glances, a mistake, because next there is a kick aimed straight to his chest that sends him flying. 

 

He doesn’t do good with pain. 

 

He grunts, groans, rolls on the grass, blessedly not hitting the hard concrete of the loading platform. His head swims as he struggles to get on his knees. When he does, he realizes one has become three, no, there are five people surrounding him now, all tall and strange, all with eyes that glow with unnatural light of a sick sun. 

 

Shiro’s breath hitches in panic. His vision begins to blur. Ache spreads from his right shoulder, right where flesh ends and metal begins. “W-what, what are you- who are you?” He can’t look at these people directly, can’t tell what gender they are, what they look like, aside from them wearing what looks like intricately carved, yet twisted armour and each wielding a sword, long and painfully sharp. 

 

“͕͎L̤̭͙̥͈͕̱i̟̲͎͍̙̯̮̰̫t̮̻̝̤͙̤̱ͅt̤̥̤͖̮̰l̥͓ͅͅe͖͙̥̘͖͕ ͚̦͖̺C͚͙h̭͖̦ͅa͎̞̘͈̝̱͍m̭̰̝̹͍̪̪p͍̥̟̬͚̗͚̭̩i̩̝͓͙͎͙͎o̖̩̩̜̺̥n͇̫̥̖̮͍̬,̥̱̥̱”̣͔͔̺͓̮̺ whispers a voice right next to Shiro’s ear. He moves, recoils but ends up too close to 

 

one of those sharp swords. 

 

These sword-wielders smile, or, Shiro can’t tell, his vision is so blurry. He smells smoke, he smells fire, feels sudden heat so close to him but he can’t see, he can’t see! 

 

“̼͙͇̝̦L̫̹̩̜ị̜͕t̳̩̜̝̠̞̱t̻l͔̮͔ͅe̯̘ ͖͇p̜͚̦̺̫̫ͅr̖̘i̤̠̰̰̯̖̪͍n͙̬͎c͕̳e͎,̮̺̞ ̲̝̻̪͇͖l̞̫̖͙̟͖i̖͙̘̺̯̺̥t̟̜͕̮̙ͅt͚͕l̖͉̜͖̪̮e̝̥̗̙̠̩̹̳ ̰̣̲̥͓͍p͇̪̭̫̦̫̥͇r̗͔̻͓̯͍̳ͅi̮̜̫͈̗͓̰n͚̻̘̙̪̘c̗̝̣̤̝ḙ̗͈̭͓͉̲,͕͉̦͕ ̮̲̤̬͈͖̜̪f̗̬̲̞o̝͍̩u̮̭̟̞̟͍n̻̯d̤̫͖̪̭͕͓ͅ ͕͓y̮̞̥̜̬o̘͓̮u̖͈͇ͅ~̫̯̭̪͍”̳ ͈͎̙͔̦

  
  


“Who,” Shiro struggles to stand up, his legs shaking. “Who the hell are you?” He squints. Whatever else he was going to say drowns in a moan as pain, impossible, awful pain, shoots up from his shoulder, runs through his body and grabs him by the throat, squeezing. He hears the whistle of a sword and then - thud, as something drops to the ground. 

 

Cold, thin claws curl around his throat and begin to squeeze. 

 

“̲R͇̗͕o̤̹̪̜̝͎̺l̼͔̯̺̠͙l o̜̥̙̘̩̱v̫̙̞̟͓e̙̥͖͇͇̥̺r͔͚̥͎̬ͅ a̞̣̳̻͈̩̜n͈d͍͚̲ ̰d̰̦i̜͚̗e͉,̰͉ ͇̗̫̠Ch̦̭̳͇̮a̬̝̩̘m̞̹̬̞̮̯p͓͕͓̙͕i͍̫͕͖̠on̯̰̘̫ ̠̤̺o̮͖̱̦̯f̭͓ ̣͔̝̫n̤̣ͅo̳̲̦t̘͙h̼͖̘̜̪i̫͙̯n͙̳͓ͅg͍͈̙̺̪.͇̣̬͍͙”͎͙ ̖̘̰̫̘̝͕

  
  


Shiro struggles, hands reaching for something, anything, finding cold leather and colder metal. Spots dance under his eyelids. He can’t see, he can’t breathe, is he burning, is that what this is?  The voices come all over, from all sides. 

 

“̰̼̺̗̝̠̫B̹a͍͇̲̳̼̣̬l̗ḻ̬̬ ̘͙o̜̤͕̘̫̤f͚̯̠̘̜͙̳ ̝͕͖̝s̯̲̣t̪̰̗͕r̦̞̫̯in̼͍̦̪̹͓g̼̱͓̮̝̦,̫̬͔ ̝̗͉͙str̺a̹̖̜̦nd͔̣ of͓͙̣̝̺̩ͅ ̲̹h̤̥̹ͅa͈͇͇̠̩̣̻i̱̟͍͇̥͕r̝,̯̻̮͕̞͈ ͇̥͍̭l̩̗̗̮̤͖͍i̼f̩͖̝̥ͅe̫̥̠͙͉͖l͕̪̠e̜͕͚̝̬̗ͅs͚̠̗̮̘̩s̮͉͔̩̝̫,͎̘͖̺͈ ̼̼͕͕̰̝̥l̳̳̤̩o͇̜v̖̖̻̠̬el̟e͕̝͇̦s̘̣̠̼̗͖̞s̱̘̺̥̲ ̭̙̥͕͉l͕͍̭̳̪i̠̺̞̥͉f̫̲̰̘e~”̺͓̠̺

̬

̘͎“͚̖̘͍Ḷ̻̭̘̯̹o͓͈o̗̩͉̙̱kͅ ̮̗͚͓ḁ̤t̝͔̙͇̜ hi̲̻̣͉̫̫̼m͈,̬̥̣̩ͅ h̲̪̤̰͉̗ͅe͇̰̹̟’̪͈̻s̰̱ ͖̰p̟̺̬a̪̥̤̼̥͙t͓̣̼͈̻h͎̰ͅet̹̺̺͙͉i̖c̩̝,̜ ̮s͉a̱̦̙̙̳̙y̮̻̖̝̟̻̮ ̲̱m͙͙o̖͎̻̠͇̭̝r̩e̠,̥̟ ̹̤̯͔̹͇s̘̫̻̥̗̱̞a͓̥̭̺͓y͖̫ ̲͈̤͍̺̩m̜̻̻͖̜o͔̝re͖!̲̮̝̮̲̥̲”̫ ̥̭̬

̼“̳̝̙̝I̺͕̠t̲̮̱̯̺ͅ’s̫̱͓̺ ̮̙̯͙w̥̻̻̥̥͔ha̰̦̺͙̱̠t̩͕̮ ̝̺̳o̭̥͉̟u̬͓͕͈̟̮̼ṛ̦͈̘͕ q͚̭̹u͚͕e͇͇̮̱̲͙̪e̥͕ͅṋ̠̼͎̞͙ͅ wa͎͍̮͕͕̘n͈͙̲͖̯͕t͖͓s̭̰̭̩̞̙.̱̩̮̙ͅ”͎̝̣

̥̣̱

̟“̦̟̗̤͍C̫̰̝̮̥̰ͅh͈͓͖͚͉̱ͅok̲̼̼̗̟e̹h̗o͍̞͔̱̙͚̪l͖̬͖̙̟ḍ̝̥͉̘,̱͕̙̱̞ b̭le̙̠e̯̜̤̟͔̱ḏ̼͚̖̰i͎̫̳͎̯n͎͖̜̫͕̥̪g̯̥̰͔ ̦͈̹h͍̱̞̯̗e̜̭̫̣̙͓̤a̬̪̳r̤͓͚͈̖̗̳t̙~”

 

He wheezes and then the blackness comes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, if the distorted text is hard to read: 
> 
> "Little prince, little prince, found you"  
> "Roll over and die, Champion of nothing"  
> "Ball of string, strand of hair, lifeless, loveless life  
> Look at him, he's pathetic, say more, say more!"  
> "It's what our queen wants"  
> "Chokehold, bleeding heart"
> 
> ̥̣̱


	12. Keith and Shiro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explanations are given. Shiro gets lost. Keith tries his best to hold on. 
> 
> Krolia returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry shiro? it will get better?? 
> 
> art in this chapter by yours truly ;)

Five days pass and Keith hides. He’s started to wake up at 3:00am every single night, always went to the backyard to sit under that tree. Always he spends those little nights staring into that forest, knowing that he’s being stared at. By who, that Keith can’t tell. He’s asked about the forest and Hunk and Romelle had told him stories: that it’s supposedly haunted. That nobody has walked through the entire forest and seen what’s on the other side. The pair had themselves tried it a few years back and had found themselves walking in circles and finally coming back to their backyard, surprised and confused. 

 

So Keith stays away now, stares at the quiet trees for a solid hour, smoking a joint or a cigarette. Only when he gets too cold he goes back to sleep and dreams of Shiro. The strange tall man with smooth lilac skin doesn’t appear again. 

 

The vines do - they’re what wake him during the night, trying to roll around his throat or his legs or his wrists, keeping him prone. Each night, Keith fights them off. Each night, he sleeps in a different spot. The night he sleeps under the tree in the backyard, they don’t come. 

 

The city goes drowsy in the heat, fans whirring where there is no air conditioning. Most have paper fans or summer hats. Everyone wears as little as possible, thin pale cotton covering up skin. Keith protects his own paleness by staying indoors during the day. 

 

The day, a few days from Shiro’s shy smile and his acceptance of Keith’s offer for a tattoo, that particular day, the morning comes unbearably quickly and unbearably hot. Keith is sweating through his tiny tank top, his loose pants sticking to his skin, even on the inside of the pleasantly cool tattoo studio. Keith has just one client that day: an older woman with a massive portrait of her cat on her thigh. It’s not Keith’s usual forte, but the lady didn’t want realism but something abstract. The black and grey lines come out clean and smooth and the lady leaves smiling.

 

Keith is not smiling. He’s not smiling when he eats his tiny lunch or listens to Matt and Allura bicker goodnaturedly. 

 

The day rolls on, hot and unbearable. 

 

It’s when Keith is in the backroom, working that he hears the shouting. His pen clatters to his tablet, the drawing left unfinished. The shouts begin screams, inaudible words. Keith runs. 

 

The smell comes next. With it, come the knowledge that Keith has smelt fire and smoke before, ran towards a raging fire before. He slams himself through the front door of the Castle and finds himself on the street, his friends gathered, staring. 

 

Coran’s Flowers is on fire. 

 

Not just that, but there are bodies. Four, no, five bodies, sliced through, left bleeding around the building like a sickening fairy ring. In front of the shop, still struggling with someone in leather armour is - 

 

“Shiro!” Keith’s throat cracks at the name, that beloved name. Keith makes a move, but Coran’s arm slams into his waist, pulling him back. 

“My boy, we can’t, there’s nothing we can do.” Coran has never sounded like this, never before. He’s always cheerful, always eccentric, with a tidbit to share. His eyes are hooded and pained. Keith struggles. 

 

They, all of them are here, Hunk is holding a whimpering Romelle, Allura has her hands on her mouth. All of them watch as the shop burns and Shiro, oh, it is Shiro, but not the kind, shyly smiling stealer of hearts. 

 

Antlers have broken through his forehead, have curled up wild and bloody towards the sky, his mouth is too wide, too filled with sharp teeth and he’s growling, fighting with this unknown invader.

 

 

Then - a flash of metal and the invader falls, impaled, slashed to pieces by a sword. 

 

Shiro pulls back, both hands curled around the handles of swords, dripping blood. Drip-, drip, dripping. He’s too close to the fire, sparks create a hellish background to the menacing figure he makes.

 

Still Keith breaks free of Coran’s hold and runs, stops until he’s a few steps away.

 

This close, he can see that Shiro is shaking, his eyes are blown wide, burning with a purple glow. Shiro is trembling trembling and there is the man Keith feels for, under the monster turning his eyes to Keith and growling.

 

“Shiro,” Keith whispers, raises his palms. “Shiro. It’s me, Shiro.” 

 

Shiro stares, wildly. His shoulders begin to droop. His stupidly endearing fringe is matted with blood, singed on the side. He trembles more and the swords drop from suddenly slack hands. The purple glow begins to lessen, bringing back irises, pupils - blown wide. A keening noise runs through bloody, split lips, teeth shrinking back to their usual size. In Keith’s eyes, Shiro seems to shrink, go hunched. That awful keening, whining noise increases, especially when Shiro’s arm - Keith gasps, reaches, leaves his finger just a little away from it - begins to tear from the shoulder. It’s a monstrous clawed hand, its veins that same sickly purple, growing out of Shiro’s shoulder like some diseased tumor. It begins to fall off and then it does, leaving behind a scarred stump.

 

Shiro screams, a panicked, awful sound of an animal. His antlers retreat back into his skull, leaving behind singed, shaved hair. He stumbles closer, away from the inferno of the flower shop.

 

“Shiro, can you, can you hear me,” Keith whispers, doing his best to speak as calmly as he can. He takes a step closer, palms still up. “It’s me, Keith. And you’re Shiro. Our Shiro.” 

 

Shiro still wheezes, keens, like a wounded animal. His remaining hand is on his head, his eyes so wild and scared, so scared. He’s so close to hyperventilating that Keith tenses. 

 

“Please, breathe,” Keith whispers. “Please. I won’t come any closer. I won’t touch you. Just please breathe. Can you hear me, Shiro?” 

 

Shiro whimpers. When his knees buckle, Keith is there to catch him.  

“Hey, I got you, big guy, I got you,” Keith whispers and gathers the heavy, bloody body in his arms, pulls Shiro against him until Shiro is snuggled against his neck. “I got you, Shiro, I got you.”

 

“K-Keith,” Shiro croaks, between wheezing breaths. Slowly, slowly, his arm raises, clumsily grabs for Keith.

 

Keith gathers that hand between his own and squeezes. “It’s alright, Shiro, it’s going to be alright.”

 

Shiro wheezes. “W-what, I don’t - it hurts, Keith, I’m - “ his breath hitches. The first tears that fall are silent, but Keith begins to caress his matted, messy hair anyway. 

 

“It’s alright, Shiro, I’ll take care of you.” Keith drags his fingers through the messy white strands, squeezes his eyes closed. Vaguely Keith realizes the worried voices of their friends, surrounding them. Faintly Keith hears the howl of sirens. But it all shrinks into something insignificant. His nostrils are full of the scent of blood and death, his arms full of a man shaking like a leaf, like a child hurt so bad by the world that he can’t live anymore.

 

Shiro begins to sob, his fingers curl around Keith’s thigh. “Keith, what have I done, what have I done, what have i do - o - one, Keith, Keith.” 

 

Keith squeezes him tightly and strokes his hair, uncaring of the dirt and blood staining his own fingers. Shiro might be bigger and broader than him, but right now, he’s small. Right now he’s like glass in Keith’s hands. “Shush, shush, it’s alright, big guy,” Keith keeps whispering. “We’ll take care of everything.” 

 

“Keith, take Shiro to the Castle.” Allura has arrived like a shooting star, her hand on Keith’s shoulder. “We’ll take care of these things.” She’s smiling, but her eyes are piercing and cold. 

 

Keith squeezes Shiro again. “But - “ 

 

Allura squeezes his shoulder. Her eyes are so very, very blue. “Take Shiro to the Castle. Please. It will all be alright.” She gives him another smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her odd, blue eyes. 

 

Keith finds himself obeying. Keeping up the gentle murmurs, like talking down a wounded animal, he helps Shiro up on his shaky feet. Even without the prosthetic arm, Shiro is a big man. Keith would still rather do anything than let go, while Shiro’s head is drooping and he’s shaking this much.

 

“It will be fine, big guy, it will be fine. I’m right here. I won’t go anywhere, Shiro. I’m right here.” Right then and there, as Keith helps Shiro into the cool air of the Castle of Inked Lions, Keith wovs to do his best to never let such awful grief come to Shiro. 

 

Shiro drags his feet, stumbling, still sobbing, but he’s starting to sound exhausted. Keith shushes him gently and takes him to the backroom, thanking Allura for the foresight of keeping the leather couch clean. 

“Hurts,” Shiro whimpers. “It hurts, I can’t - “ he croaks, his voice cracking. He drip-drips blood on Keith and Keith seats him down, moves to get up to find cleaning supplies but Shiro panics and draws him back. 

 

“I’ll just - Shiro, you need to get cleaned,” Keith whispers and gently withdraws from Shiro’s grip. “There are bandages right there. And a sink.” The lump in Keith’s throat refuses to move. “I have to see if you’re wounded.” Keith’s own voice sounds hollow and strange to his own ears: like someone else speaking through his mouth. 

 

Shiro’s eyes are wild and fearful. “I’m r-remembering, things,” Shiro whispers and more tears begin falling from his already reddened eyes. “Hurts, it hurts, I can’t, I can’t - “ he begins to rock himself, making himself smaller. 

 

Keith’s heart clenches. “Just a second, Shiro, please, just - “ he hurries to the other side of the room and rummages through the rustic little cupboard, digs through paper cups and a dozen different chargers and an incredible amount of batteries. He comes out with a bottle of disinfectant and a discarded roll of bandages and hurries back to the sobbing Shiro, kneeling by him.

“Shiro, I’m here, I’m here. Can I, can I touch you?” Keith is so out of his depth here: he isn’t used to giving comfort, especially not to anyone he’s only known for some weeks. He wants to press a kiss to Shiro’s forehead and hold him tight again. 

 

Shiro whimpers, he snuggles closer to Keith, head still bowed. He curls his fingers around Keith’s knee. 

 

Keith sighs, gently, very carefully, lays his own hand on top of Shiro’s. “At least let me see if you’re wounded. Please? I won’t hurt you, Shiro. I swear.” Keith fights to keep his own voice level. There is so much blood on Shiro, his t-shirt matted with it, turned from white to dirty brown. Shiro lifts his eyes, but only to Keith’s shoulder.

 

“Keep breathing, big guy,” Keith whispers. “Listen to my voice. My breathing. Can you do that for me, big guy?” 

 

Tears just keep falling, now silent. Shiro nods, mutely, his breath hitching with barely restrained sobs. 

 

Inside Keith’s ribcage, his heart breaks with a crack. He brushes his thumb over one sweaty, bloodied cheek and begins the clean up. It’s no more than removing Shiro’s shirt, completely ruined and disinfecting all the little cuts and slashes, running a wet towel to clean up the worst of it. Water quickly turns filthy brown and trickles down Shiro’s temples, his broad shoulders, his broad chest. It slides into the old, old leather couch and into Keith’s ripped jeans. Yet Keith doesn’t stop. He murmurs Shiro’s name, softly, makes sure not to do any too quick movements. Questions burn in Keith’s brain, eager to burst out, but Shiro is not in any shape to answer them. 

 

The silence breaks with the sound of a door and quick, stern footsteps. Keith lowers the bandage roll and plasters, in the middle of bandaging Shiro’s left bicep. Shiro’s head drops against his shoulder. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, so slow Keith barely hears. 

 

Before Keith can answer, the door is pushed open. 

 

A deep breath, a blink of an eye. Keith’s eyes widen. 

 

“Mom?” 

  
  


Because there she stands, as tall as ever, Kieran’s warrior woman, the one who crashed into his life. The one who left Keith when he was just a baby. The one who returned. 

 

But - 

 

Keith slides his arms around Shiro and stares. “Why - why are you purple?” Keith blinks. And blinks. And blinks. Blinks rapidly but Krolia still stands there, hair as fluffy as ever, the same eyes Keith sees everytime he looks in the mirror staring back. 

 

And her skin is purple. The ears are pointy. There are slashes across each cheek, like scars, but also purple. She’s wearing the jacket Keith remembers her always running around in: thick, black leather but she - she’s purple. 

 

She blinks. “Oh, fuck. Oh, shit.” She glances at Shiro, then Keith, then Shiro. “Oh fuck.” She runs her hands through her hair. “Well, no helping that. I take that I was too late.”

 

Shiro has begun breathing more normally and his vice grip on Keith’s knee has eased up. He’s heavy against Keith’s shoulder. Keith’s arms stay where they are, his fingers cradling Shiro’s neck. “What?” Is all Keith manages. His voice dies on his tongue completely when Krolia is joined by another familiar figure.

 

It’s the man from Keith’s dream, week, no, longer? Ago. He isn’t lilac this time, his skin is brown, his ears normal and round, but it’s him. His hair is still white and long and his eyes sharp like steel. 

 

All Keith manages is a choked sound. He feels dizzy. 

 

There is a mere few seconds where they all stare at each other, uncomprehending. Krolia curses again. Then she hurries to Keith’s side and hugs him, engulfs him in the familiar scent of a forest. 

“I’ll explain, I swear, I’ll explain everything, absolutely everything!” 

 

The new man clears his throat and smirks. “I see, I see.” He clicks the door shut behind them and sheds his coat. “As she is wearing no glamour, I shall shed mine as well.” Before Keith can even begin to comprehend, the man, for the lack of a better word, shivers. He sheds this human face, brown making way to faintly remembered lilac, round ears sharpening into pointy ones. The whites of his eyes make way for gold. He smirks and reveals more sharpness. This man is like a sword, a knight from a long-forgotten dream. He bows. “My name is Lotor, friend. I would have assumed you remembered me, but as it seems you do not - “ the posh lilt of his words prickle something at the back of Keith’s head.

 

“Lotor,” Krolia hisses. 

 

Lotor shrugs, seemingly unfazed.

 

Keith squeezes his eyes shut. “What. The. Fuck.” His sharp words jolt Shiro who whimpers. At least he seems to have fallen asleep. “Explain. Both of you.”

 

Krolia withdraws from him and chews on her lip. She sighs, her shoulders sagging. “This isn’t .. this isn’t how I wanted - “ She rubs the bridge of her noble nose, the same nose Keith inherited. 

 

God, he is the spitting image of his mother. He looks at her. “Does this shit have something to do with my dreams?” Keith glances at Lotor, then back to Krolia. 

 

Krolia inhales. “Dreams? You’ve been having dreams, kiddo?”

 

Keith stares at her. “I got attacked. Explain.” 

 

Lotor flops his entire, ridiculously tall self on one of the armchairs. He crosses his legs. “He is your son, Krolia.” 

 

Keith’s gaze snaps to him. “Maybe you should explain why you think I should know you?” 

 

Lotor’s smirk wavers. “Maybe she should start from the beginning, my friend.”

 

Friend? Keith nudges Shiro closer to himself, until the sleeping, exhausted man is on his lap. 

 

Krolia sighs, again. “I don’t know where to start, to be honest. But I mean to be absolutely honest with you, kiddo.” She runs her long, artist’s fingers through her hair. It’s as fluffy as Keith’s. “Lotor, please fetch Allura. I think Coran needs to there to tend to his shop.” 

 

“Whatever you wish, my lady,” Lotor huffs and stands back up, sauntering out of the room. 

 

The silence that falls is thick with tension. 

 

Keith shifts, so that he can look at his mother better and not jostle Shiro in his sleep. Krolia looks back, eyes sharp. “What do you remember of your childhood?” She asks, tossing the ball to Keith’s court. 

 

Keith frowns. “Not - “ he falls into thought. Childhood. The years when Krolia wasn’t there. “Nothing much. Why? Is it important?” 

 

Krolia sighs. “I see. The thing is, Keith - you had two boys babysitting you when you were a toddler. Before you went away to school.” She meets his gaze head-on. “I am one of the Fae, Keith. That means, you are half such as well.” 

 

Keith blinks. “Huh?” 

 

“Fae. Faerie. I know you are aware of some of the mythology surrounding us but - “

 

“H-hold up. Fairies? Tiny little Tinkerbells?” 

 

Krolia snorts. She gestures to her own ridiculous height that Keith hadn’t unfortunately inherited. 

 

Keith huffs. “Uh. What does that have to do with babysitters? I don’t remember any babysitters. I thought I didn’t have friends growing up.” Thanks to you, is left unsaid. 

 

Krolia seems to realize it anyway because her mouth softens. She reaches to stroke his hair. “Oh, Keith. This isn’t how I wanted you to find any of this out - I was - dammit.”

 

Keith’s head swims. He strokes Shiro’s hair again, uncaring that his own fingers are filthy. Shiro whimpers in his sleep but Keith shushes him. “You’re telling me - you’re telling me pa’s known all the time? That I’m not - I’m, what, not human?” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. 

 

Krolia withdraws her hand. “For what it’s worth, dearest, I wanted to tell you. But believe me, I kept it as a secret for your protection. There is great turmoil in our world and uh.” Now she colours, a darker purple. “Perhaps it would be better if you asked and I told you? I am no storyteller. But the gist of it is that you, my son, are the result of two worlds crashing and if the Fae knew of your existence… you would be in grave danger.” 

 

Keith opens his mouth. Closes it. He groans. His head has started to throb. “Jesus fucking Christ.”  

 

Right at that moment, Lotor returns with Allura in tow. She takes one look at the gloom in the room and sighs. “Bloody goddamn hell,” she says and crosses her arms.

 

“I did nothing, princess,” Lotor says smoothly and flops back down on the armchair. Despite being an incredibly tall, slender elf man with pointy ears and lilac skin, he oddly seems like he fits in this room, under this roof. 

 

Allura throws him a look and then flutters to Keith and Shiro. “Good to see you, Krolia,” she says, then brushes her slender hand over Keith’s hair. “You have a remarkable gift, Keith.” 

 

Keith stares at her and now - now he sees her too. Her skin doesn’t change, stays the same smooth brown it’s been before, but her ears are pointy, on her brow are sparkling jewels. She smiles, sadly. 

 

“Is everyone a fucking magical creature around me?” Keith grits his teeth. He clutches Shiro tight. “Is… is he …” He lowers his gaze and doesn’t see the looks shared between the other three. 

 

“Yes,” Allura says, soft. “Coran and I have been keeping an eye on him.” 

 

Keith inhales deeply. “Sit down. All of you. Don’t - just don’t say anything for a moment. Just. Don’t.” He squeezes his eyes closed. His heart races. Shiro shifts in his arms, but doesn’t wake and doesn’t move. 

 

The silence is deafening, so Keith opens his eyes again. “So I am half-fairy. What about it? Why can’t I remember?” He looks at his mother again.

 

Krolia nods. “The thing is, the fae world has been in the brink of a war for a good long while. It is a very long story and I doubt we have much time, judging by the Unseelie knight corpses we had to take away before the authorities arrived - “

 

“Human authorities,” Lotor says smugly but shuts down when the two women shoot him looks. 

 

“Unseelie?” Keith resumes stroking Shiro’s hair. 

 

“Yes,” Krolia continues. “The thing is, us Fae are mostly separated into the Seelie and the Unseelie courts. It’s not as black and white as good and evil - all Fae have the ability to be corrupt and cruel. Yes, even me.” She sighs and shifts closer to Keith, dares to land her hand on the back of his head. He lets it. “I, as well as you, dearest, are of the Unseelie. Lotor here is of the same.” 

 

Lotor waves.

 

Keith stares at him, uncomprehending. 

 

“And I am of the Seelie Court,” Allura says gently. She’s taken a seat in the other armchair, sitting on it like it is a throne. “The turmoil comes from the fact that not one, but two royals have been displaced. You see, mostly the Courts are ruled by a Queen or a King, or both.” Her smile is sorrowful as she looks at Shiro’s slumbering form. “Unfortunately, it’s Shiro who is the reason for a lot of it.” 

 

Keith frowns. “How can he be the reason? What’s he done? Who is Shiro to you people anyway?” 

 

More looks. More quiet secrets shared between the three. Keith bristles. “Just fucking tell me.” 

 

“He is King,” Lotor says. His smirk has faded. 

 

“My King,” Allura adds. “The human world, or the surface plane as we call it, doesn’t truly have knowledge of the magnificence underneath it all. If they knew - I shudder to think. Anyway, Shiro was found, a little over seven years ago, by a group of humans. I do not know how these humans could trick a Seelie Prince but tricked he was.” She smooths down her skirt. She seems to shimmer faintly, even under the harsh light of the break room. “He was taken. He was abused.” 

 

Keith’s heart cracks. Again, again. Shiro whimpers in his sleep, whispers no. “I’m here, Shiro, I’m right here. You’re alright,” Keith whispers, eyes on him again. 

 

“I think we will spare you to the details,” Krolia says gently and strokes Keith’s hair. “But he was returned to the Seelie King and Queen, his parents, a ruin. So they, uh, exiled him.” 

 

Keith’s head snaps back up. “Exiled? Their own child?” 

 

Allura hesitates. Her cheeks darken. “As said, the Fae are not good or evil. We do not generally stray to live with humans, aside from general trickery. And well, there are some who are born cold and twisted - “

 

“- Like my dear darling mother,” Lotor growls. 

 

“Exactly,” Allura says. “The thing is, the decision to exile Shiro, to strip him of his rank, of his name, of his memories  - of all that made him the Seelie Prince, was not a popular one. Shiro is popular among his people, our people and had even managed to strike a friendship with Unseelie, finding ways for us to live in peace. But no one could go against the King and Queen. Their will is absolute.” Her eyes glimmer with unshed tears, yet her voice stays resolute. “Barely a few months into Shiro’s exile, both the King and Queen were slain.”

 

Keith can’t speak no more. This is beyond his understanding, his knowledge of the world turned upside down. His hands tremble. He leans against his mother. A story, a dangerous fairytale is unfolding and he is smacked straight in the middle of it. 

 

“May I continue, princess?” Lotor leans forward, graceful as a panther. When Allura nods, Lotor smiles a shark’s smile. 

 

Keith stares at him, finding it hard to breathe. 

 

“See, the Seelie Throne was taken by an usurper. An usurper sent by my mother, no less. My mother is a witch and has sat her bony, cold arse on the Unseelie Throne, plotting and planning ever since my father was murdered.” Lotor’s eyes gleam a cold light. His smile doesn’t waver. “It’s a long story, full of court intrigue and fae politics and so forth. I assume you might find it dull, friend.” 

 

“I’m not your friend. I don’t even know you,” Keith hisses.

 

Lotor’s mouth twitches. “That any way to speak to your babysitter?” 

 

Keith’s eyes widen. 

 

Krolia groans. “Lotor, behave.” 

 

“I am behaving!” Lotor huffs and leans back, begins twirling a lock of luscious white hair around his fingers. “Long story very short, my mother Honerva is behind this all. I am certain she has her claws in the humans who kidnapped our saviour prince as well. She was always crazy, but off the rails she went when those knights murdered my father. She certainly loved him more than she ever loved her only son.” Bitter venom seeps from his words, staining his breath acid green. He’s still smiling, somehow, but his eyes are cold. 

 

Keith’s head throbs. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he repeats. “Jesus fucking fucking Christ.” 

 

“I’m sorry, Keith,” Allura says carefully. 

 

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry as well,” Lotor says then. “I did not wish to live you by yourself and friendless, but my duties called for me. And your father is a good man. And … I am certain Shiro agrees. We made a great trio: you, me and him.” 

 

Keith drops his forehead against Shiro’s head and closes his eyes. “Sometimes,” he starts, voice rough. “I looked at him and thought there was something familiar about him. So you’re telling me he knew me as a child?” 

 

Krolia strokes his hair, presses a kiss to his temple. “For two summers and two springs, they dutifully looked after you. You were five and six. They were very good boys with you.” 

 

Keith lets out a choked noise. “Get out. Just - get out all of you. Get out.” 

 

They all still. “Keith,” his mother whispers, her voice cracking. “I understand. We will be close-by.” 

 

And then they go, leave as silently as falling leaves. 

 

When the door closes, Keith lets out a sob.  

 


	13. Shiro and Keith, here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro and Keith talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finland has been hit with a heatwave and i have been hit with intense back pains which makes sitting down practically impossible without pain so i have zero energy to write
> 
> but i still have a couple of chapters to update with before we reach the point where i haven't written more yet. ;; stay tuned

At first, when Shiro opens his tired eyes, the light is too much. He closes them again, drifts off. His mind is blessedly empty. He hears nothing, he sees nothing. He is nothing. 

 

The next time he opens his eyes, it is dark. He blinks. And blinks. He shifts, tries to sit up, but only ends up flopping back down with a pained groan. It apparently wakes the other occupant of the room, because soon Shiro has hands on him, tucking him in again. Shiro doesn’t recognize the room with its star-studded ceiling. 

 

It’s like his head is full of mist. He tries to speak. 

 

“W-where?” He smacks his mouth and turns his head. 

 

Keith is staring at him, eyes indescribable, black bags under his eyes. His hair looks shaggy and unkept. “At Hunk and Romelle’s house,” Keith says. His hand is very cold as he lays it on Shiro’s forehead. “Y-you, you’ve been - “ Keith’s voice cracks. “You’ve been asleep for a week, Shiro.”

 

Shiro blinks. Week? He’s been asleep a week? “My head… it’s. What - “ 

 

Keith’s palm slides to his cheek, gentle. Shiro squeezes his eyes closed and gasps when the memories come: the figure at the flower shop, wounds all over his body, gleaming yellow eyes, the prosthetic arm slashed from its base, the words whispered into Shiro’s ear before everything had gone dark. Flashes of memories from further before, from a life that - 

 

Shiro shifts, lets out a whimper. He stares at his remaining hand and it’s wrong, it shouldn’t look so pale, so unknown, like someone else’s hand. 

 

“Shiro?” 

 

Keith’s hands are gentle, so gentle it aches as he lays them on Shiro’s shoulders. “Shiro, hey, I’m here, I’m here - “

 

Shiro whimpers again and lifts his hand to his temple. His limbs feel as heavy as lead, his head a screaming chaos. He remembers the stench of blood, faintly remembers gentle fingers in his hair. “What did I do? What did I do?” 

 

The bed dips under Keith’s weight as he climbs in. “Shush, hey, hey, it’s alright, you’re alright.” He gathers Shiro into his arms, so easily, like he had done it many times before. 

 

Shiro draws a deep breath. God, his head aches. His forehead aches, two spots where - where - he has a faint memory of looking at a pool, staring at the massive antlers growing from his head. Is it a dream? Is it a memory? “My head aches,” Shiro murmurs and inhales shakily. He buries his nose against Keith’s shoulder. “I’m a mess.” 

 

Keith huffs. “Big guy, so are we all. I’m in this mess together with you, you know.” His grip doesn’t loosen. “I just… my mom is in town.” 

 

Shiro jolts. “Your… mom?” Of course he knows of Keith’s mother: Keith’s carefully told Shiro something. But Shiro never expected her to show up. Shiro’s throat begins to clog up with anxiety, his skin feeling cold. He smacks his mouth again. 

 

There is something in the air in Appleberry and it’s centered around him. He’s certain of it. Is this why someone like the mysterious Krolia would come here? 

 

They shift so they’re sitting face to face, Shiro still leaning against his mountain of pillows. Keith is holding his hand, pink-cheeked.

“Yeah. She showed out of the blue. Well.” Keith bites his lip, expression troubled. 

 

Shiro frowns, despite his own pounding headache and the swelling nausea. “What is it?” Ache. His brain, his nerves, his very cells ache. Yet there is such striking sorrow in Keith’s eyes. 

 

“She isn’t human.” Keith laughs, draws his hands away. “It means I’m not human either!” He stands up, swiftly. 

 

Shiro’s heart begins to race. The two spots on his forehead throb. Antlers, he thinks. The knowledge that the face he’s wearing right now isn’t his real one makes the ache deepen. How he does know it, he can’t tell. “Keith?” 

 

Keith turns his back. “While you were sleeping, we talked. Mom. Allura. Lotor. And uncle Coran.” 

 

Shiro jolts. The familiarity of that name strikes him. Before he can ask, Keith’s voice cracks. 

 

“It looked bad for a moment for you, Shiro. It turns out, neither of us belong here. You belong in their world. I - where do I belong? My mother had me in secret. She stumbled into my father accidentally. You - they told me about you.” He turns around and he’s still flustered, hair still shaggy. “You had a home and it was taken from you.”

 

Shiro’s hand, still resting on the blanket, curls into a fist. His head throbthrobthrobs. “K-Keith, I don’t - “ I had a home? It was taken from me? He squeezes his eyes closed. “I still can’t remember. Why I can’t remember?” 

 

Keith comes back to him, but now Keith’s eyes are shiny. “I’m sorry, I just blurted all of that out, it’s just - it’s just been a lot without you.” Keith sits back down on the bed and yelps as he’s pulled into an embrace. 

 

Shiro inhales deeply. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “We were just getting to know each other and then, all of this weirdness started happening. I think - I think it’s my fault.” He nuzzles against Keith’s neck, the brainfog not lifting. 

 

“You didn’t choose this. They, your, no. Our friends told me no details, don’t worry, but they told me something awful happened to you and it got you - got you here. It was out of your control.” Keith sighs and squeezes him tight.

 

Shiro tries to not focus on how perfectly Keith fits against him. “I can’t remember,” Shiro whispers again, desperately. 

 

“They took your memories. All that you were. It wasn’t your fault. Shush.” Keith begins stroking his hair, adjusts himself better so that he’s sprawled on Shiro’s lap, arms around Shiro’s neck. 

 

“I feel lost, Keith.” Shiro keeps his eyes closed. He inhales the scent that is Keith, truly and honestly, just Keith. 

 

“Then we will be lost together,” Keith whispers against his hair. 

 

Keith smells so good. Shiro brushes Keith’s jaw with his nose. “Could you, um, get me a painkiller? Head kinda hurts.” When Keith pulls away, Shiro offers him a little smile. 

 

“Just a second. Do you want to sleep more? You feel a little warm,” Keith murmurs and hesitates. 

 

Shiro shakes his head. “I think, I think I would like some fresh air.” 

 

Keith retreats to fetch the painkiller and a glass of water, returning soon all pretty and pink-cheeked. The sight of him hurts. 

 

Shiro gets his pill, his water and accepts Keith’s help only with a little grumbling to get himself off the bed. 

“I can walk, you know,” Shiro murmurs but keeps his arm tight around Keith’s waist anyway.

 

“I know,” Keith says. For such a lithe, thin guy, his arms are strong. “But I want to help you.” 

 

Together they make their way downstairs and hassle Hunk and Romelle, deep in a conversation. 

“Shiro!” Hunk jumps up from the couch, eyes looking suspiciously wet. 

“Oh, we, I - “ Romelle stammers but then she comes closer too and Shiro finds himself hugged from two sides, Keith retreating a little to give them space. 

 

“We’re just gonna sit in the yard,” Keith says. 

 

Hunk weeps. Romelle says it’s okay, it’s okay and pets Shiro’s cheek when they break the hug. Shiro rubs his neck. “I’m - Keith told me I’ve been asleep for a while. I didn’t mean to worry any of you.” Shiro gladly takes Keith’s arm again and hesitates. 

 

“I’m glad you’re okay, man,” Hunk says again and wipes his eyes. 

 

Shiro swallows and looks at the floor. What he wants to ask lingers in the air between them, unable to form into proper words. “Coran? W-where’s Coran?” A hitch of panic in his voice gets Keith’s arms around him. 

“Let’s not think about that right now, Shiro,” Keith whispers. “One thing at a time.”

 

“Yeah,” says Romelle and takes a step back. “You just woke up. Please, just go sit down for a while. All explanations can wait.” 

 

Hunk sniffles. “Man, I’m glad to see you up,” he says again and pats Shiro’s bicep. “We’ve all been worried about you. And Keith, he barely left your bed - ow!”

 

Shiro’s gaze snaps up. 

 

Romelle is squinting at Hunk - realization dawns slowly on Hunk’s face.

 

Keith’s cheeks are suspiciously pink. “Shut up, Hunk.” 

 

Hunk clears his throat. Loudly. “Oh. Got the message. Yeah, shutting up now. Anyway, Shiro, before shit hits the fan, I think all of us need to have a good sit-down at one point and just have a good time. As friends, yeah?” 

 

Shiro huffs. “Sounds good. Shall we go sit down, Keith?”

 

Keith hums and nods. He leads Shiro out into the yard, to the hanging swing on the porch. There’s a quilt laid there already and Keith tugs it around Shiro’s shoulders. 

“I’m not cold, “Shiro murmurs. But he shifts and wraps his arm around Keith anyway. 

 

Keith is tense. “How… how are you feeling? Your head still hurt?” He’s ripping out a wayward string from the seam of his jeans. His hair is in a loose ponytail. 

 

Shiro stares. And stares. And stares. “I- I ache.” Carefully, like Shiro is now the one to calm down Keith, he begins to rub Keith’s arm. “I will be fine, Keith. You, however - how are you? You have heard a lot of news lately.” 

 

Shiro’s mind stays empty, free of thought and memory that would bring him pain. But he knows they are there, right at the edge of his mind. He knows he remembers now, some of it: that he isn’t human. That this isn’t where he is supposed to be. It’s all hazy but the knowledge of those things is heavy on his heart. 

 

Keith’s eyes flick towards him. “You- you ask me if I’m fine? You-” Keith lowers his head. “Do you remember what happened? The flower shop was set on fire. But - “

 

Shiro sighs. “Yes. There were knights there.” They had whispered words to him, unlocked something dark and poisonous and everything had gone black. When Shiro had woken, he had been drenched in blood, surrounded by their corpses. He squeezes his eyes closed. The swing begins to sway. “I killed them, didn’t I?” His voice is hollow, raspy.

 

Keith leans against him, still tense, but his breath is warm when it hits Shiro’s neck. “Yes,” Keith whispers. “Who were they?” 

 

Shiro lets his hand fall. He keeps his eyes closed. Their whispers come to him, the words all static but Shiro knows they are dangerous words: capable of unleashing whatever it is that’s hiding beneath Shiro’s skin. He trembles. “Knights of the Unseelie Queen. Here to kill me.” 

 

“Shiro – “ 

 

Shiro pulls away, gets up on shaky legs. “And they’ll kill you too if you stay.” He looks away, turns away, walks away. 

 

“But –“ Keith comes to him, hand careful on Shiro’s bicep, but Shiro pulls away. 

 

“They already attacked you once.” 

 

Keith falls silent. Shiro hears him shift his feet, the grass rustle under his feet. “That was them? Unseelie… knights?” 

 

Shiro glances at him but glance becomes a stare and then Shiro is turning back to him, laying a warm hand on a tense shoulder. “You are not safe with me, Keith,” Shiro whispers. 

 

Keith lifts his chin, resolute. His eyes are fiery. “And you are not going to do something stupid, are you?” 

 

Shiro squeezes his shoulder, rubs his thumb over the firm skin underneath the clothes. His mouth is dry. Stay away, he means to say. When he opens his mouth, Keith’s jaw tightens. 

 

“Don’t tell me to stay away. I am already in this. My mother is an Unseelie.” 

 

Shiro snaps his mouth closed. “She is?” 

 

Keith nods, tense. His arms are crossed. Like this, close as they stand, his head comes up to Shiro’s nose. Yet Shiro feels like the one who is small and lithe. His shoulders hunch. “It’s – fairie politics don’t get any less messy than human ones. I don’t know what they told you, but it’s not like all Unseelie are bad. I don’t know what to tell you.” He wavers, knees suddenly weak but Keith is there, catching him, keeping him upright. 

 

“You don’t have to tell me anything right now,” Keith says, softer. “You went through an ordeal. If you wish, I can call up everyone to this house.” 

 

They go back to the swing and sit down, arms touching. “Later,” Shiro says. “I just wish I could remember all. It’s like… it’s like all of my memories are still here but they are disorganized, blurry, static. All I know is that I have been in Appleberry for longer than four years.” The pain returns, even to his eyes. Hunger gnaws at his belly. He groans and rubs his eyes. 

 

Keith rubs his back, careful and gentle. “Should i make you something to eat? You don’t have to tell me right now. It’s alright. You don’t have to ever tell me the details of what happened to you. Or what’s in your head.” Keith’s cheeks are blooming with warmth, his eyelashes, his ridiculously long, pretty eyelashes, flutter as he hesitates. “I am.. I am your friend, Shiro.”

 

Shiro inhales shakily. “You are my friend as well. Maybe we need to have a proper chat with all of our friends later on. When I am not in pain.” He doesn’t add that there is a lingering pain there, always. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're gonna both need a million hugs after this fic is done


	14. Keith, here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith and Coran have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy exposition batman
> 
> also sorry for the lack of updates, real life got to me + I've also been prone on the ground due to awful back pains AND i was volunteering at a convention last weekend ;;

Keith stays by Shiro’s bedside. The bed is actually Keith’s, but Keith is fine with sleeping on the couch for as long as needed: Shiro needs rest more than him. Outwardly, Shiro seems unwounded. The paleness of his face disappears, to be replaced with a healthier flush. A day passes while Shiro recovers. 

 

Keith finds himself out of the house, staring at the ruins of the flower shop with a solemn uncle Coran. “Ah,” says Coran. “All of my enchantments, gone. All of those precious flower children, gone.” 

 

Keith pats his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” The remnants of whatever could be salvaged have already been recovered. There isn’t a single drop of blood remaining from those corpses. 

 

Uncle Coran huffs. “Ah, no matter, my boy. I am able to rebuild. It is only a building, after all. I only need to make my enchantments stronger. Those Unseelie knights were truly devious.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and glances at Keith. “But enough of me. How are you faring, my boy? I hear you were not aware of your heritage.”

 

Keith’s shoulders tense and he pulls his hand away. “Yeah, well. Talk about a surprise.” The nailpolish in his nails is chipped. “I have always known there was something… I don’t know how to put it into words. Words can be difficult for me.” He begins tugging on his braid, unraveling it. “I was surprised, but not that surprised. My ma has always been an enigma. Being a Fae fits her. And me, I guess.” 

 

Coran hums. “Walk with me, my boy.” 

 

So they do, away from the charred remains of Coran’s Flowers and from the twinkle of the Castle. “You see,” uncle Coran begins. He walks like a valiant knight in a fairy tale: back straight, with a smile. “Sometimes us of the Fae find ourselves among the humans. Some of us trick them, kill them, torture them - that is true. But some of us do love them. We all share the same air, even when we don’t share the same plane of existence. Appleberry is the center point of the Unseelie Realm and the Seelie Realm, crossing over with the Dusk Realm.” 

 

“Dusk Realm?” 

 

Coran nods. He tugs on his magnificent moustache. “Dusk Realm is where the dusk faerie dwell. They are the ones who stay the most neutral to the human world. They live for the dusk and the twilight, the moments between the day and the night. But they are closeby here, as well. None of us remember or know why Appleberry specifically, but so it is.” He strokes his moustache and smiles, fatherly. “You have seen dreams here, have you not?” 

 

Keith’s lips part. “How did you - ?” 

 

A twinkle in Coran’s eye. “We all see dreams here. The fairy realms are so close that they bleed into this place. I would bet that our human neighbours see even more vivid dreams.” He clears his throat. “Anyhow! My boy, you have a choice ahead of you. As half-human, you do have a choice in not joining us - “

 

Keith stops, lays his hand on Coran’s arms. “Join who?” 

 

Coran pulls his arms behind his back. “We should not discuss specificies before our King is properly recovered, but - what else, my boy? But the retrieval of the throne that our Shiro belongs to.”

 

Keith draws a deep breath. “If there is any way I can help Shiro, then I will do it.” 

 

Concern drifts on uncle Coran’s face. “The witch that the knight Lotor speaks of is not to be trifled with. Neither is the usurper she has placed on the Seelie Throne. You will be protected, as well as your father - “ 

 

“Will they come after my Pa?” Keith’s jaw tightens. “Or ma?” 

 

“Now, Krolia is an accomplished knight and the Blade of Marmora has been instrumental in keeping up the balance between the two Courts and all of our realms, but - “

 

“No buts. If ma fights, so will I. I don’t know how or what I can do, but I will.”

 

The corner of uncle Coran’s mouth twitches. “I hear you get your stubborn streak from your mother.”

 

“They’ve already attacked me,” Keith says. “Did you know that?” 

 

Coran frowns. “All of our homes are enchanted, that should not - “ 

 

“It was at the park. They were looking for a prince.” Keith curls his fingers into fists. “I assume that’s Shiro. I did something to chase them away. There is power in me. I’m not about to sit at home, waiting for things to happen.” Appleberry has quickly become his home. He’s grown familiar with the greenery, the sleeplessness, the joy of the Festival. The people. And Shiro - sweet, friendly Shiro. 

 

Coran waits patiently for Keith to gather his thoughts. Keith’s jaw is tight. “I - I want to know what happened to Shiro. I hear it was humans and then his own parents but. That’s not all. I don’t want to ask him and cause another panic attack.” Keith rubs his fingers together, lifts his chin as he stares at Coran. 

 

Coran rubs his moustache. “Yes, it does come down to Shiro in the end. He has been a beloved prince since his birth. Oh, what a little reckless bastard he was, always running around with that Unseelie friend of his, Lotor - Lotor ran away early from his mother and father and good for him, they were the worst of the Unseelie. Unfortunately, she still is and we would like to keep Zarkon from coming back. He was a warmonger and the most brutal of them all.”

 

“Zarkon? Honerva’s husband?” 

 

“Yes. But. You asked about Shiro. Yes. Yes. Let’s walk while we talk, just around the block. It is not a long tale and all the details are not known to me, unfortunately, since it was the humans that kept Shiro and the Unseelie that were behind it. Shiro was younger then, more naive. Where Honerva is the worst of the Fae, Shiro is among the best. He was always a fair prince, righteous and good. Certainly he had his rebellious, stubborn streak but always, always he was kind. It’s that naivety and kindness that brought him to the attention of humans.” Coran sighs. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.

 

Keith’s heart twinges painfully. 

 

When Coran continues, he looks pained. “They tricked him from the Seelie Realm to this Realm, tricked him into a circle of iron and teased him, tricked him again and again. Shiro was gone for a year. For some of it, he was known to be in the Pits, deep, deep underground, beneath the Unseelie Realm. No, don’t ask me of the Pits, please, my boy. They are not the place for one such as you or I, much less the illustrious prince.”

 

Keith is not blind to the great number of scars all over Shiro’s body. The sand underneath his shoes crunches. Keith is tying his braid into knots over his hands. “And the rest of it?” His voice is a husky whisper. 

 

Uncle Coran sighs. “I believe it’s the humans who cut his arm. When he returned to us, half-dead, almost faded away, it had been cut. Not torn.” He looks at Keith then, leads them to a park, under the shade of the tree. “Hair is a great point of pride for all Fae, you see.” He tugs on his own strands, covering his neck. “Mine was, of course, cut shorter out of my own free will. I find long hair rather tiring.” 

 

“Hair?” 

 

“Shiro, ah, our King, used to have long hair like yours. It was as black as yours and as well kept. When him and Lotor ran together, they were like day and night - Shiro with his black hair, Lotor with his white.” Coran smiles, sadly. “Especially to the Royals, the high Fae, of which Shiro is, hair is seen as a sign of wealth and health. And they cut it. The humans, or those vicious Unseelie, cut his hair. It was cut unevenly, some parts shaved, some parts shorn off. It had turned fully white by the time he returned.” 

 

Keith feels the hot sting of tears and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. His heart aches. Shiro, who had been naive and sweet and a fairy prince, had been stolen, taken, tortured. “He has so many scars,” Keith murmurs. “I noticed him looking at my hair once or twice, but I always just … thought… “ he trails off, cheeks pink. 

 

Coran chuckles and pats Keith’s shoulder. “Well, he is certainly very taken with you, young Keith.” 

 

“Sure he is,” Keith huffs. He rubs his cheek. “No wonder he’s anxious. If you guys want to return to the Fae, I  - um. Are you even certain he wishes to have the throne anymore?” 

 

Coran sighs. “It is beyond his will. The Throne will always have a ruler on it. And since he is a legitimate one, as he remembers more - he will feel its call. Besides, the usurper Sendak who sits on it now is an Unseelie, a brute undeserving of that honour.” 

 

Keith sighs too. “I see.” He gnaws his lip. “Okay. Okay. Let’s walk back, I don’t wanna be away from Shiro for too long.” It gets his cheeks red, but Coran doesn’t comment. 

 

For a while it’s silent, then Keith’s questions fall of his lips again. “What about Hunk and Romelle? Are they human? Fae? What about Matt?” 

 

Coran rubs his moustache and smiles, a little rueful. “They are human, as far as we know. And believe me, we Seelie are extremely good at seeing through glamour.” 

 

“Glamour?” 

 

A twinkle in Coran’s eye as he magnificently gestures to himself. The air around him seems to shimmer, light twinkling, spreading over him and revealing to Keith that Coran has all along been wearing a mask.

 

Not an incredibly intricate mask, considering fairy-version of Coran merely has longer ears and strange markings on his cheeks. He also glows. “Good, right?” Coran winks.

 

Keith snorts. “Okay, okay. So is .. Shiro wearing one too? Do our human friends know of you.” He bites his lip. “Well, us.” 

 

Coran makes himself look more human again. “Ah, well. You see, my boy. That is where me and Allura have broken the rules. As basically spies and refugees from our beloved realm, we are not meant to reveal our true nature to humans. But yes, Hunk and Romelle are aware. And I do think that Holt boy knows more than he leads on. Yet I sense no magic from him, of any kind. You do not have to worry around them to keep yourself secret.” He sweeps his moustache. Even today, he’s dressed impeccably in flashy blue. “And yes, Shiro is in glamour. Unfortunately his true form was used against him, as you witnessed.”

 

Those antlers. The even more impressive height. Claws dripping with blood. Keith shudders. Beautiful, frightening - yet it is still Shiro. “So that was his true form.” 

 

“Yes. I know you don’t wish to bring up bad memories,” Coran says and leads him back towards the tattoo shop. “But no one knows the details of Shiro’s, um, imprisonment aside from SHiro himself. He has not shared and we will not look into his memories. The Fae are many things, even us Seelie, but our thoughts are private to each other. Especially ones of such pain.”

 

Keith scoffs but he nods, shoves his hands into his pockets. “Okay. Okay.” He lets his tension bleed out of his body. “I think I’ll try to focus on work.” He’s itching to get back to his sketchbooks and his tattoo guns. Most of all, he’s itching to get back to Shiro. But Shiro needs rest.

 

“And we will start planning,” Coran says and turns away the Castle’s door. Maybe he is still weeping for his carefully built flower shop, for each flower and herb he has grown with his own hands. But Coran is a rebuilder, Keith thinks, and Coran will survive. 

  
  


The very air in the Castle of Inked Lions seems to shimmer. Keith draws a deep, deep breath.


	15. Shiro, here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro gets his tattoo.

With each hour, something new, no - something old, now remembered, seeps back into Shiro’s brain. After finally getting out of the bed, finally recovered, all wounds scabbing, he steps outside and inhales deep. 

 

Everything to do with the Faerie, everything that traumatized him like this, however, stays in the dark. But Shiro remembers that he was at the desert once, knocking on the door of a cozy little house. He can practically taste the dry air and feel the smile stretch his young lips as the little boy answers.

 

Keith had been a pretty little kid, more of a fairy prince than Shiro had ever seen himself to be. All three of them, Keith, Shiro and a roguishly charming lotor, had been rebels, pirates, firefighters. For a couple of summers, Lotor and Shiro had looked after Keith, held his little hand and taught him about bugs and lizards and birds, played ball with him, ruffled his fluffy black hair numerous times.

 

What Shiro can’t remember is his mother’s face when she had told him that Lotor is an enemy, a fae from the evening light and thorns and lies masked as truths. 

What Shiro remembers is the day he never saw Lotor again until this day, ushered back into the 

eternal light and green of the Seelie Court.

 

He remembers being tricked by iron and blood magic, but he doesn’t remember the faces or the voices of the humans who had done it. Trying to remember the details of his capture only causes his heart to race, sweat break out and a whimper slip through his lips. Perhaps it’s better to not remember. 

 

He’s counted all the scars on his body, slashed through his chest, his throat, his arm, his legs, his back.  

 

It’s those scars that he reveals now, finally in the same space as Keith again: this time as a customer and Keith as his tattoo artist. 

 

Keith’s eyes taken in Shiro, linger on his scars and those pretty, pretty eyes soften. “You’ve thought of a place yet?” They’ve talked of the tattoo for a while, in these quiet moments as they wait for their plans to form, for this ceasefire to stop. 

 

Keith had showed his design of peonies just a moment ago, two flourishing lilac colored flowers. Keith’s skill with a pen is undeniable and the fact that he drew this for Shiro, well. It throws Shiro out of loop, makes him flush. 

 

The Castle of Inked Lions has closed its doors for a break, for construction - some reason Shiro can’t tell. What he sees now are the glowing runes drawn over the windows, over the doors, by the counter. It’s unmanned now, of course, but Matt appears by the doorway to the back area. He looks a little more haggard like they all do, but his grin is crooked.

“Here to see loverboy again, huh?” 

 

Shiro warms. “Good to see you too, Matt. How are you feeling?” 

 

There is a twinkle in Matt’s eye. Shiro believes his friend to be fully human but Matt is taking the knowledge of living in a magical world very well. “Should be asking you that, magic man,” Matt says. 

 

“Don’t you start,” Shiro huffs. “Really, are you okay? I mean, the situation is tense and the flower shop and I’ve been a mess and I lost my arm again and - “ he trails off when Matt tilts his head and grins. 

 

“Buddy, what are friends for? Things are weird and there is a purple man smirking at me every time I fetch a cup of coffee and Keith’s mom is purple too but she’s hot, is she single?” 

 

Matt blinks. Shiro blinks. 

 

Shiro groans. “Matt!”

 

Matt nudges his shoulder. “Your man is waiting for you. He was here two hours ago already, preparing.” Matt wiggles his eyebrows.

 

Shiro blushes. He nudges his friend as he pushes past him and makes his way to Keith’s usual studio. Indeed, Keith is there, hunched over a tablet, hair swept away in a haphazard bun. Lately, Shiro has noticed a certain glow to him: not quite like the ethereal glow that Allura and Coran have in their fae forms. 

 

Maybe it’s just Keith. 

 

There are bags under his eyes as he lifts his head, a soft pink to his cheeks when he sees who it is. “Shiro! I - I was waiting for you.” 

 

Shiro smiles and is delighted to receive a smile back. “Truth to be told, I’m nervous. But seeing you - w-well, it’s always good to see you, Keith.” 

 

They smile at each other for a moment, before Keith blinks, gathers his bearings and gestures for Shiro to take a seat. “You saw my sketch already but, I kinda tweaked it - “ Keith turns the tablet towards Shiro, licking his lips a few times.

 

Shiro takes the opportunity to take a seat and lean close. Keith shifts closer with his saddle chair. 

 

The peonies are brushing each other, their petals edged with gentle pastel lilac. They seem alive. Shiro exhales sharply. “I love them.” He lets his fingers trace Keith’s knuckles, enamoured by the way Keith’s long eyelashes flutter. “Still nervous though. Needles, you know.” 

 

Keith puts away the tablet and curls his fingers around Shiro’s, squeezes. Their eyes have not strayed away from each other for a single moment. Shiro stares at those bottomless galaxies, swirling in Keith’s beautiful eyes. Somehow, the anxiety curled around Shiro’s heart eases. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, big guy,” Keith says gently. “Being nervous is normal. I’m right here, right here for you. I’ll be very careful with you. And the machine isn’t exactly like a needle, you know. It’s like, well. It’s like a pen? A buzzing pen.”

 

Shiro’s cheeks bloom a deeper, hotter red.  He nods and laughs. His treacherous mind invites him to say that he wouldn’t mind having Keith be rough with him. “I like the design a lot.”

 

Keith’s reply is a shy smile. “Well, then. Let’s do it.” 

 

Shiro settles on the seat and pulls off his shirt, neatly folding it and giving it to Keith. Keith isn’t looking at Shiro’s chest. 

“I want it on my chest,” Shiro murmurs, ears as pink as Keith’s cheeks. Shiro taps the right spot. “Right here. Can you do that?” 

 

Keith nods. “Of course. Just relax while I get myself ready. And you.” He puts on a few hairpins to keep wayward hair off his face and proceeds to wash his hands. 

 

Shiro follows every movement: watches those long, pretty hands disappear under black gloves, waits patiently as Keith takes a seat on the saddle chair and readies his equipment. Keith’s eyelashes flutter, casting shadows on his flushed cheeks as he shaves the spot to be tattooed and readies it for the tattooing.

 

Shiro’s heart is threatening to jump out of his chest. He swallows hard, helpless to the sight of utter concentration on Keith’s face. 

 

Keith smiles, lays a gentle hand on Shiro’s arm. “Ready?” 

 

Shiro smiles back. “Ready. I put my body in your hands, Keith.” His smile widens and he tosses in a very Matt-like wink: it’s worth it, because Keith snorts. 

 

The first press of the stencil is nothing: Keith’s fingers are gentle, yet confident. Shiro watches him still, eyes wide to see the flowers blooming over his heart. He keeps his hand on his stomach and takes a few deep breaths. 

 

“Ready?” Keith takes the tattoo machine in hand, ready with black ink at first. The machine begins to buzz. 

 

Shiro draws a deep breath. “I’m all yours,” he whispers. Pain is not a stranger to him, he’s been wounded and pushed and poked so many times before, so many times he can’t even remember all of it, lost in the haze of his amnesia. Still his fingers twitch at the first touch of the sharpness on his chest. 

 

“It’s okay, big guy,” Keith murmurs. “You could have asked someone to come here with us.” 

 

Shiro looks at him again, at the silky fall of black hair. “I wanted to be just with you.” His fingers curl on the side of the leather seat. 

 

Keith stills, the tattoo pen raised. “O-oh.” His smile blooms, as pretty as the peonies he’s engraving on Shiro’s chest. “Just say if you want to take a break. Or a glass of water.”

 

“I can handle it.” Shiro inhales deeply, exhales. His chest rises and falls slowly. 

 

“I know you can, big guy. Still. I expect you to say if you need to take a break.” Keith gives him a stern look.

 

Shiro flashes him a toothy grin, the corner of his mouth twitching when Keith’s hand brushes his peaked nipple. “Aye, aye, captain.” 

 

Keith snorts and rolls his eyes, but his smile is fond. “Dork.”

 

The rest of the tension slides off of Shiro and he snorts. “Yet you smiled! Ow - “ 

 

The tattoo gun continues to buzz. Keith huffs. He wipes off ink and blood in regular intervals. “Don’t laugh. You don’t want me to ruin your peonies.” 

 

“I’ll do my best,” Shiro whispers and smiles softly. His fingertips twitch. He winces. His skin goes raw, more sensitive. Yet pain feels far away with Keith’s gaze on him, Keith’s breath brushing his skin. 

 

Keith switches colours. “You doing good, big guy?” Those enchanting eyes look up again. “Okay to continue? It’s time for some red.”

 

Shiro exhales deeply. “Yeah. Okay.”

 

Gently, ever so gently, Keith wipes Shiro’s chest clean again. Then that intense look of concentration takes him over again and he continues to mark Shiro’s chest, occasionally brushing against his skin with a warm arm and gloved fingers. 

 

Shiro doesn’t look away, endures, grimaces from the ache. But the fall of Keith’s hair is more fascinating, the flutter of his long eyelashes, the tip of his tongue occasionally wetting his parted lips. 

 

Beautiful. God, but Keith is beautiful. Shiro can’t tell anymore if the ache in his chest is from the fresh tattoo or from something else entirely. 

 

“Keith.”

 

“Mm?” Red spreads on the tattoo, a flower blooming. It is a stark contrast to the ones adorning Keith’s arms: geometric black and grey, like dead trees just waiting for leaves and flowers to bloom. 

 

_ Go out with me?  _

 

_ I know the world is strange right now, maybe we are both strange to like living in it too but- let’s be weird together?  _

 

_ Please, go out with me?  _

 

_ I like the way you smile. I like your hair. I feel safe with you. _

 

“Ah, could I have some water?” Shiro licks his lips. 

 

Keith blinks at him, then nods. “Of course. Of course. Sorry, I get lost in it.” He stands up to fetch Shiro a glass of water, rather unnecessarily brushes his fingers against Shiro’s. Shiro doesn’t mind. Instead he drinks and sighs deeply. 

 

“Thanks. I get a little sore and dry if I stay in one place for so long,” Shiro murmurs. 

 

Keith’s smile is shy. “That happens, big guy. Ready for some more?” 

 

Shiro smiles back. “Yeah.” 

  
  


Keith works diligently. Shiro does his best to stay still. The peonies bloom on his chest, over his heart. Whatever magic runs through Shiro’s veins makes them glow. Once Keith helps him stand up from the seat and shows off the tattoo, Shiro smiles once more. 

 

“It’s a little red and it will be swollen for a little while,” Keith murmurs, brushes Shiro’s arm in a way that makes Shiro think it’s not entirely an accident. 

 

“It’s lovely, Keith.” Shiro smiles at their reflections: at the few strands that have escaped from Keith’s bun, at their bright eyes. They look good together. 

 

Keith blushes. “We do, don’t we?” He squeezes Shiro’s arm. 

 

Shiro blushes. “Did I say that out loud?” He clears his throat. “I didn’t- I- the tattoo is really lovely, really, really lovely. It looks good.” He turns carefully towards Keith, angles himself. He doesn’t have to look down that much. 

 

“I’m glad,” Keith whispers. They’re standing so close. Keith’s cheeks are still pleasantly flushed. His cheekbones so sharp. 

 

Shiro can’t remember the ache of the fresh tattoo anymore. All he knows is the colour of Keith’s eyes. 

“You’re so pretty, Keith,” Shiro murmurs. It just slips out, as unrestrained as a roaring river. 

 

Keith’s eyes are bright. “Are you flirting with me, big guy?” Keith begins tugging off his gloves, not letting his gaze stray from Shiro’s eyes. 

 

Shiro’s heart races. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth. “I- “

  
  


Knock, knock, knock. 

  
  


Amusement flickers in Keith’s eyes. He begins to cover up Shiro’s tattoo, rambling on the ways to take care of it. 

 

“Fuck,” murmurs Shiro. 

 

“Keith? Shiro? We have takeout!” Matt sing-songs. “Hellooo~ are you making out?” 

 

Shiro groans. “Matt!” 

 

Matt laughs. “No, seriously, there’s take-out. Better come out fast if you’re done with tattooing, otherwise all the good stuff will be long gone!”

 

Keith snorts. “Better do as he says, big guy. Especially since there’s a lot of people eating here.  ”

 

Shiro regretfully pulls on his shirt, making a face. “Am I to meet your mother?” 

 

Keith huffs and nudges him, still gentle with him. “Yes. She’s barely let me get out of her sight. And there’s- well. Old friend. Lots of friends. Strength in numbers.” He directs Shiro out of the door, hand brushing Shiro’s lower back. 

 

Shiro can’t quite suppress a shiver. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew talks important plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO THIS FIC LIVES AND IS NOT ABANDONED
> 
> a bit short but you know me, i live short chapters

Japanese take-out is spread all over the dining table: with so many people in the break room, it’s cramped. The casual chatter has quietened down, greetings are shared. Shiro tries his best to not rub his chest. Lotor is staring from one end of the table, all pale lavender skin and obnoxiously beautiful white hair. 

 

Shiro had shaken Krolia’s hand and called her Ma’am. 

 

Keith still feels shaken up for it, especially when his mother had stared Shiro down, then clapped him on the shoulder, apparently deeming him suitable. For what, Keith doesn’t quite know and he isn’t certain that he wants to know. Krolia has taken the protection of Appleberry quite seriously- it’s her and her fellow warriors, tall, masked people in matching armour who have been spotted patrolling the parks, the streets. Unnoticed by the mortals. Unbearably noticeable to Keith. 

 

It is only Krolia now, clad in a borrowed t-shirt and a pair of jeans, still not any less intimidating. She has presented the first part of the plan: the way to get their team into the Faerie. It’s all of them in on it, separated into two teams.

 

It’s war, in the Seelie and Unseelie realms right now, those fighting against the bloody queen Honerva, those fighting against the usurper Sendak. 

 

It’s war, it’s soon all of them against those unseen, unknown enemies. 

 

Keith holds Shiro’s hand under the table, fingers intertwined. Shiro is leaning towards him, like naturally gravitating towards Keith’s space. Separating them isn’t happening: where Shiro goes, Keith goes. Keith knows it now. 

 

“Someone will stay behind here to keep an eye on your mortal friends,” Krolia says. “If we can come here this easily, so can someone else under Honerva or Sendak’s rule. It doesn’t matter if it were an Unseelie or a Seelie Knight, they would still be in danger.”

 

“Hunk and Romelle have been good to me,” Keith says. “I’d hate for anything to happen to them. Besides, they are, well. Human. But. If Shiro is going, so am I.” His cheeks warm from the way Krolia smiles at him. Even worse they warm up when Shiro smiles at Keith. 

 

“I feel better knowing I have you with me.” Shiro’s eyes glimmer. He still looks exhausted. His cheeks flare up. “I- I mean you are capable. Competent. And you are not the amnesiac.”

 

“Shiro.” Keith nudges him.

 

Shiro nudges him back. 

 

Lotor clears his throat unnecessarily loudly. He’s lounging in one of the big chairs like a king, all his magnificent white hair cascading around him. There is a glow to his lavender skin, accentuating those ridiculous cheekbones. He’s been making eyes at Allura, who is coyly ignoring him.    
  


Shiro flushes at the attention. 

 

Keith huffs. “So, from what you guys have told me… there is an usurper in both Fae thrones, right?” When confirmed, Keith bites his lip. “Then we’re going to set things right.” When Shiro squeezes Keith’s hand, Keith lowers his eyes, a little smile flashing on his face. “I mean.. I don’t - but unless you guys have some kind of a magic prison or whatever, I don’t think those villains are safe to be left in one piece.”

 

“Spoken like a true Unseelie warrior,” Krolia murmurs. “It does not have to be you, kit. There are a great number of warriors eager to get the true Kings and Queens back on the throne.” 

 

Lotor nibbles on a piece of pork, holding his chopsticks. He hums. “I will be glad to give the killing blow to that monster I once called mother. As well as Sendak. He is a being of intolerable cruelty, a true brute.” Lotor clicks his tongue. “Not subtlety whatsoever.”

 

Allura hums next to him, a faint smile on her lips. “Well, he is certainly more brutish than you, prince Lotor.” 

 

“Ah, it’s prince now, not bastard?” Lotor says sweetly and lays such a heavy look on Allura, that everyone else around the break room begins to shift awkwardly. 

 

Allura’s cheeks gain a definite pink hue. 

 

Shiro and Keith glance at each other, softly. “I’m good at martial arts,” Keith blurts out. 

“And I’m good with a sword,” Shiro adds. “I have a feeling none of us know our way around firearms.”

 

“They’re not allowed in this town anyway,” Allura says sternly. “Also, iron. Electricity, anything mechanical… it stops working in the Faerie. Especially in the Courts.”

 

“More ways for us to defeat the usurpers.” Krolia picks apart her dinner, glancing at each person in turns. “Now then. I have a contact, who can take us to the Faerie. But it is not a good idea for all of us to go to the same place. So aside from our human friends staying in Appleberry, we will have two teams. One to go fight Sendak in the Seelie Realm, one to defeat Honerva.” She smiles, her eyes sharp. She points her chopsticks at each of them in turns. “Will you all listen to me or do you have suggestions?” 

 

“I’ll go with Shiro,” Keith says again, squeezing Shiro’s hand again. Shiro doesn’t seem to mind Keith practically handfeeding him anyway.

“So Seelie Realm it is, for us,” Shiro says. “I- I may not remember all of it, but I am not eager to meet Queen Honerva.” The corners of his mouth twitch, like going for a smile he doesn’t quite remember how to do. 

 

“Understandably.” Lotor twirls one of his chopsticks between his teeth. His fangs flash. “I shall go to the Unseelie.” He wrinkles his nose. “Although the air does bad things to my skin.”

 

Krolia rolls her eyes. “And I will accompany you. Allura, Coran? I know asking for you to go to the Unseelie would be the epitome of rudeness, but - “

 

Allura’s eyes flicker towards Lotor. Coran, so far silenced by food and unusual grimness, hums. “I shall go be a guide for these boys! Allura, of course, does what she wishes to!” He twirls his moustache. He clears his throat.

 

Allura taps her lips with a napkin. “Seelie Realm it is for me as well. I am eager to go home, although the usual revelry has gone silent. It seems Sendak prefers bloodshed to joy, bruteness to the more subtle ways of the Fae.” 

 

“Because he is not Fae,” Lotor huffs. “He’s an experiment of my mother’s. Whoever Sendak was before, he is a beast now. And I am, if nothing else, excellent at slaying such.” He flashes his fangs once more.

 

“I have a crew ready to join us in Unseelie Court,” Krolia says. “So the numbers are even.” She reveals her own teeth, not as long as Lotor’s, but just as intimidating. I have already contacted my soldier, who will escort us to the Dusk fae. The Dusk Realm is between all the realms, so it is the perfect place to make our, ah, let’s say… infiltration.” Her grin is almost feral. 

 

“And you trust this contact?” Allura steeples her fingers. 

 

Krolia nods, sternly. “With my life. He is of the Unseelie.” Her gaze flickers towards Shiro. “And his name is Ulaz.”

 

Shiro lowers his chopsticks. “Ulaz?” Something in his forgotten memories rings. “Was he - is he - “ He licks his lips. Keith lays a gentle hand on his bicep and squeezes. Shiro shoots him a grateful smile. “Was Ulaz someone I knew?” 

 

Krolia hums. “He knows you.” Stretching like a cat, she sighs. “Alright then. We shall discuss more details after we are done with our food. I will draw you some maps as well.” 

 

“And then Shiro needs rest,” Keith says. 

 

“Keith.” Shiro nudges Keith’s side. 

 

Keith huffs. “Don’t you even start.” 

 

“I’ve been asleep for a week already. I’ve had enough.” Shiro takes Keith’s hand once more. “And you will protect me, right?” 

 

Keith bites his lip. He rolls his eyes, but he’s fond. “Damn right I will.” 

 

“Adorable,” Lotor mutters. “Now, can we finish dinner? I am eager to get going.” 

 

“Still have things to do here, prince Lotor,” Allura says sweetly. “Don’t go running off on your own.” She clicks her chopsticks. “We shall need to pack. Miss Krolia needs to go through the details with Ulaz. And we will all have to go through some more planning. We shall not leave all to the Dusk Realm.” 

 

“Whatever my princess wishes,” Lotor says and offers a sultry grin. 

 

Krolia snorts. “The princess is correct. Now, let’s finish up here.” 

  
  


So they do: they switch to small talk, to clacking of chopsticks and away from the tension of what is to come. Perhaps battle, perhaps death. 

 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Keith asks Shiro later, once it’s just the two of them again. 

 

Shiro is in the middle of changing shirts, Keith offering to help without a single word. His eyes linger on the flowers tattooed on Shiro’s chest. 

“Perfectly sure,” Shiro says. “I still have three working limbs, don’t I?” He grins, boyish and sweet.

 

Keith rolls his eyes. “Don’t even joke about that, you idiot.” He helps Shiro pull on one of tighter shirts. “You’re gonna show me your moves then. But carefully. You’re still bruised.” 

 

“I can handle it, babe - “ Shiro blushes. He rubs his neck. “Eh. Keith.” 

 

Keith tugs his braid. “Dork.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up: ulazzzz


	17. Interlude: Krolia and Ulaz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krolia goes into the night.

The night, as usual, is dark and strange. The little city sits in the stillness and the darkness, watching, waiting. There is no wind, no rain. Just the stars, blinking down at this little, silent town. Just Krolia’s fellow warriors, patrolling the streets, as unseen as shadows. They are all tall, bigger than humans, a few have tails that sway cautiously from side to side. The eyeholes of their mask glow a faint light, like moving little stars. They know their duty. They are the Unseelie, and darkness is their domain. 

 

Flowers grow around the most protected houses now: vines crawl up the sides of Shiro’s apartment, now dark and lacking its occupant. Shiro sleeps in Hunk and Romelle’s spare bedroom, hand protectively over his chest. Keith has curled up on a spare mattress, made himself small. A little rose is held between his slack hands, the tiny, fragile petals almost brushing his parted lips. He’s dreaming of good things, this time. That’s as much as his mother made sure of. Keith shifts in his sleep, a few long strands stuck to his lips. His nose wrinkles and he murmurs, turning to lay on his back. Instinctively his fingers curl around the little roses, protecting the blooming purple petals. 

 

Krolia, used to sleeping under the stars, tiptoes back to the house through the protective barriers, with the key entrusted to her by Hunk and Romelle, those adorable two. Krolia paints a symbol of protection on their bedroom door, presses her lips to the warm wood and smiles. They will be fine. 

 

Her bare feet make no sound. She gently pushes open the door to the guest room, tilting her head at the sight of those two boys: Shiro snoring away in the bed, Keith curled up on the mattress. 

“I will be back in the morning, little star,” Krolia whispers as she crouches next to her son, kisses his forehead. She strokes his hair off his face, smiles when his nose wrinkles. Krolia didn’t spend enough time with her little star when he was a boy, but now that he is a man, Krolia knows she has the time and the opportunity. Keith has grown so strong, so handsome. And- so loyal. Krolia stands up after tucking Keith’s blanket better over him. 

 

Shiro has barely moved in his sleep, still dead to the world. To him, Krolia whispers the same words of protection, draws the sigil in the air between them. Perhaps her protections would work better if she were a Seelie, but she is still one of the Fae- and Shiro is the True King. 

“Keep my boy safe, Takashi Shirogane,” Krolia murmurs. “I see how you two look at each other. Just… keep him safe.” She lays a cool hand for a mere second on Shiro’s forehead. Instantly the frown he has, goes smooth. 

 

With that, Krolia steps out of the room, closing the door. With a smooth hand down her body, she shifts from her night shirted self to one of the Blade agents: her uniform tight against her skin, the same moonless black as the night outside. Her blade appears with a shimmer and she goes stern, tucking it into its sheath on her hip. It is like this that she appeared to Kieran Kogane for the first time, all those years ago: entirely by accident. He hadn’t been frightened, but instead intrigued, a little turned on. 

 

Krolia hums. Her love for that mortal man is an ache in her soul. Yet it is not yet time to go back to him, not just yet. She goes outside, whispers a spell. A little bird appears, made out of her magic. “Kieran Kogane,” she tells the little bird. “Go to him and keep him safe. Tell him that I love him. And that his son loves him.” The bird blinks its tiny pinpricks of light at her and then flutters towards the inky sky. 

 

She keeps herself maskless. This is not the place to hide her face: she is surrounded by allies, after all. She still keeps her hand on the handle of her knife, as she walks. She spots a few glowing spots in the dark, that blink at her. She blinks back. The other Blade agents watch her, silently. 

 

She walks, she walks, she walks. She reaches the edge of Appleberry soon enough, the ending to the safety and the protection. She steps over the edge, breathes deep. Close enough, the scent of desert drifts towards her. Somewhere, there, her beloved sleeps the night on, oblivious. 

 

Out here, the wind increases. It tickles the edges of her pointy ears, brushes her cheeks like a lover. 

 

She waits, her muscles tense. Against her back, Appleberry sleeps on. In front of her, forests slowly fade into a desert. Appleberry is an in-between place, not quite a city, not quite a town, not entirely human, not entirely something else. It fits her. More than that, it fits Keith. 

 

Krolia lets a smile drift to her lips at the thought of her little star. Sometimes she can’t tell if Keith takes more after his mortal father than his immortal mother, but perhaps he is the best of both. He’s got his looks from Krolia, that much is certain, but his determination, his loyalty, those are Kieran Kogane’s traits. To think, that a brief dalliance, casual sex with a mortal man lead to a birth of a son. And whatever Keith’s future holds for him - Krolia hopes it will not destroy his fire.

 

A particularly hard breeze makes her straighten. A telltale whisper in the wind. A faint melody, from a faraway childhood. She smiles again, properly. Danger still creeps in the edges of her vision, but so does the dawn. 

 

“Ulaz,” she says. 

 

And here he is, materializing from the shadow, as tall as a tree, his skin the startling colour of snow. 

“Krolia.” His voice is rough from disuse, but his brief embrace is warm. Over the long decades of their lives, Ulaz has become barely more than a ghost. Here he still is, breathing, thinking. 

 

Without another word, Krolia grabs his hand and leads him over the protective barrier, into the little city. Their hands fall, and Ulaz covers his face. His steps are silent and steady, hands on the sword on his hip. With the barest little touch, Krolia leads him to the silent house. More than anyone else, Ulaz lives in the moments between the day and the night, both dawn and dusk. He is a fae of the in-between, of shadows made by trees, of light trickling through the treetops. 

 

He slips through the door after Krolia. His silence would be unnerving to those who don’t know him. 

“Sit down,” Krolia murmurs, leads Ulaz to the living room. They seat themselves in the dark. Whatever faint light the moon reflects, it is enough to bounce off their eyes. 

 

Ulaz’s mask slides off his head without a sound. “Are they prepared?” He closes his eyes, leans his elbows on his knees. 

 

“As prepared as they can be,” Krolia sighs. “Have you any news for me?” She lays her hands on the armrests of this plush, comfortable chair. The house is full of life during the day, but during the night like this, it is dead and still. Waiting like Appleberry waits. Waiting like their enemies wait. The Faerie calls to Krolia, urging for her to return home. Soon. Very soon. 

 

“Regris has been executed.” 

 

Krolia’s jaw tightens. Regris had been one of the good ones. At least Kolivan - “And… Kolivan?”

 

Ulaz hums. “He is doing what he can. Not all of the Fae are truly loyal to the usurpers. Some still remember what it is like when the Thrones belong to their rightful owners. They wish for their rightful King’s return. The Realms are out of balance like this.” A brief hum, almosts a chuckle. “And the mortal world dreams on, oblivious.”

 

“What could they do?” Krolia taps her fingers against the armrest. “Only a Fae can fight a Fae.” She rubs her temples. “We have not had struggle like this for decades. I would have preferred it to never happen again.”

 

“Sometimes our ambition grows too strong,” Ulaz murmurs gently. 

 

“Or our curiousity.” Krolia throws her head back and stretches her legs. “Or bloodlust. Just call it what it is, Ulaz. We should have known what Honerva was doing in her labs, way before Zarkon was murdered.”

 

“I think we would be in a full-blown war, if he had lived,” Ulaz reminds her. “Be glad Fae like him are not born all the time. How is Prince Lotor, by the way?” 

 

Krolia snorts. “To think that that brat is our only hope for a good ruler for the Unseelie. But he has shown himself better than his parents, that is for sure. I can only think it is due to the influence of both Shiro and Keith.” The names drop from her lips with ease. Shiro may be the true King, but he is still a man who needs time to heal and get used to his new and old truths. And Krolia can see how Shiro looks at her son. 

 

“Good influence then.” 

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Whatever happens, once we confront Honerva and Sendak… I think it is time for the Faerie to change.” Ulaz steeples his fingers. “Whether we die when we go, or if we live. I do hope it is time for peace. I grow weary of blood.” 

 

“I know, old friend. I know.” Krolia rubs her eyes. She slips her knife out of its sheath. The purple sigil on the handle glimmers its own magical light. “Do you know what this blade means, Ulaz?” 

 

Ulaz’s answer is a glowing gaze. 

 

“It is a relic.” She gently strokes the shining, sharp blade. The blade hums, recognizing her owner’s touch. “No, she. The weapons of our family are always she. They do not have sentience of their own, but they do have their own auras. They imprint on their owners. Not all Fae lineages have that.”

 

“No, we don’t.” 

 

Krolia laughs, a brief, melodic sound. “What makes me and my family so special, you may ask.” She stands up, does a few twirls with the blade, flicks her wrist so the blade is no longer a short dagger, but a gleaming sword. “Perhaps my ancestor was just lucky, discovering the elder Fae who created this blade. She carries within her a memory of every single one of her owners. A few memories that exist nowhere else but within her. She is made of luxite, the - “

 

“Rarest metal in existence,” Ulaz finishes for her. He hums again. “Intriguing.” 

 

“This blade can kill an elder immortal like Honerva,” Krolia whispers. “I have been alive for so long, Ulaz. I remember Honerva when she was still one of the Seelie, and not- what she became.” She lowers herself, lowers the blade. She slips back into the sheath. With Ulaz’s encouraging hum, Krolia wets her lips. “If this goes sideways, my- Kieran will not know what became of me.” 

 

“Things will not go, as you say, sideways.” Ulaz’s yellow eyes gleam. Warmth radiates from his aura. 

 

Krolia smiles. “You believe in me.”

 

“I believe in what is right,” Ulaz says. “And what comes to the usurper queen and her puppet… she dug her own grave. Being one of the elder ones does not give her the right to bend reality to her will. We are strong. We are long-living. But we are not gods.” 

 

“And we should not be gods.” 

 

“Indeed.”

 

So they sit, in the dark and the shadow, these two agents of death and change. They wait for the day to come, both feeling the call of their home realm. Mortal world is impossibly vast, ever growing. Perhaps one day, when mortals go to the stars, Krolia will go with them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the short chapter (again) but Krolia needed a little time to breathe before shit goes down. ♥ 
> 
> also sorry i killed Regris ahskldssg


End file.
